I  so  R  A'S    CHI  LD. 


PS 

J  S  0  Pi  A'S    CHI  L  D.  '^ 


0  ^<^' 


Ak 


''  He  that  vrrite* 
.«•  inaket  a  feast,  more  certainly  invites 
His  judges  Ihaii  his  friends  ;  there's  not  a  gUM* 
Sut  win  find  something  wanting  or  ill-d-e**." 


IXTH      EDITION. 


NEW    YORK: 
L>ERBY   &  JACKSON,    119    NASSAU    ST. 

1859. 


KSTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  i:i  the  year  13.W,  bjf 

J.    C.    DEUljy, 

la  the  Clcjiv's  Offictt  of  live  Diolricc  Court  for  tlie  Soiiiaeni  Disliict  ol 
New  York. 


'»-.    H.    TINSd.N,   STERK.'Tyriia 
PUr>>KY    *    1  CSSELL,    PinNTBRt. 


ISOEA'S   CHILD 


CHAPTER    I. 

O'er  every  feature  of  that  still  pale  face, 
Had  sorrow  fixed,  what  time  can  ne'er  erase. 

ii  TIT  ELL,  Benson,  we  are  left  pretty  much  alone  in  this 
!  I  great  house.  How  do  you  think  that  you  can  manage 
affairs  without  a  mistress  ?  I  shall  keep  up  the  establish- 
ment as  my  mother  left  it — retaining  the  same  servants,  while 
I  depend  upon  you  to  superintend  matters." 

Louis  Clarendon  spoke  sadly,  and  in  a  somewhat  perplexed 
tone,  as  he  regarded  the  vacant  chair  of  his  deceased  parent, 
which,  since  his  childhood,  she  had  occupied  at  table  ;  and  as 
he  sat  alone  at  breakfast,  waited  upon  by  her  substitute,  Miss 
Dorothy,  he  eyed  her  more  keenly  than  he  had  ever  before 
done.  She  had  been  to  him,  since  a  boy,  as  much  a  fixture  as 
the  old  sideboard,  where  rested  the  tankards  of  his  ancestors  ; 
and  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  removing  one  of  the 
carved  posts  from  his  mother's  bedstead,  as  of  cutting  from 
the  family  tree,  one  who  had  stood  as  stately  and  stiff  as  the 
mahogany,  as  many  years — consequential  alike  in  reflected 
importance  and  inborn  self-esteem,  which  dignity  had  nowise 
decreased  by  her  present  promotion  to  the  head  of  the  family, 
for  head  and  trunk  she  considered  herself.  Louis  had  been 
reared  since  she  was  part  and  parcel,  of  the  household,  and  she 
having  considered  him  as  a  twig  under  her  training,  the  full- 


Q  1  S  O  R  a'  S      G  H  1  L  D  . 

grown  and  graceful  young  scion,  who  now  stood  as  f;«^le  heir 
to  the  Clarendon  estate,  was  looked  upon  privately,  as  still  a 
boy,  who  needed  her  guidance  and  direction,  whatever  airs  he 
mij-'lit  assume  as  the  young  master  of  the  house. 

Miss  Dorothy  Benson  gathered  up  the  cups  and  saucers  ; 
and  placed  them  in  the  hands  of  the  waiter,  she  being  mean- 
while apparently  backboneless,  and  of  inflexible  muscle  ;  which 
beino*  done,  she  turned  on  her  axle,  and  observed  that,  "  If  she 
couldn't  keep  house,  it  was  a  pity  !  that  was  all  !  It  was 
lonesome  enough,  she  knew,  but  she  thought,  if  there  was 
no  interfering,  she  was  capable  of  ordering  and  managing  ; 
and  if  she  was  to  speak  her  mind  freely,  she  wanted  no 
help  about  it  eitlier  ;  and  that  if  folks  were  regular  as  they 
ou^j-ht  to  be,  and  niggers  and  waiting  girls  made  to  keep 
their  places,  and  do  tlieir  own  duty,  there  would  be  no 
trouble  about  mistressing  ;  and  it  Mr.  Louis  knew  it,  he'd 
save  himself  trouble  by  letting  things  go  on  pretty  much  as 
they  had  done." 

Louis  Clarendon  again  eyed  the  maiden  housekeeper,  and 
cast  up  in  his  mind  (he  felt  it  presumption)  their  relative 
positions  ;  but  although  scarce  two-and-twenty,  he  had 
learned  that  there  was  policy  in  war,  and  that  the  decrees  of 
no  despotic  general  were  more  fixed  and  arbitrary  than  those 
of  a  petticoated  administration,  to  which  one  had  been 
subjected  since  infancy — as  the  Chinese  waddler  becomes 
accustomed  to  her  foot-bandages — toddling  unconsciously.  So 
the  tall  Dorothy  grew  seemingly  taller  and  stiffer  while  the 
breakfast  things  disappeared,  being  contented  with  no  appa- 
rent rising  rebellion  from  her  young  master,  at  her  first  maiden 
speech  on  the  oi)ening  of  a  new  parliament.  She  felt  herself, 
queen  regent,  and  young  Louis,  the  boy  priuce — so,  while  mat- 
ters and  things  were  being  discussed,  she  placed  herself  at  a 
right  angle  in  her  old  mistress's  rocking-chair,  much  to  the 
dismay  of  the  young  gentleman,  whose  spirit  was  roused  by 
the  assurance  of  the  spinster  housekeeper. 

"  You  have  my  mother's  chair — place  it  in  her  old  dressing- 
room,"  said  he,  authoritatively  ;  "  henceforth  it  is  sacred." 

The  young  man  was  obeyed,  but  with  a  bad  grace,  and  the 
*'  boy-whim,''  as  it  was  contemptuously  deemed,  humored,  while 
an  humbler  seat  was  taken. 

"  Benson,"  he  continued,  ''you  seem  to  belong  to  our  family, 
and  have  been,  I  am  aware,  in  the  confidence  of  my  mother  ; 


Isoka^'sChild.  7 

you  knew  her  plans  and  purposes,  perhaps  better  than  myself ; 
and,  although  I  learned  sometliing,  in  her  last  illness,  of  her 
benevolent  projects,  there  is  much  that  I  wish  to  hear  respect- 
ing them.  I  know  that  she  was  piuch  interested  in  a  poor 
widow,  and  her  child,  that  she  assisted  ;  and,  among  her 
bequests,  I  find  that  they  are  especially  remembered.  1  must, 
therefore,  look  them  up.     Where  do  they  live,  Benson  ?" 

"  A  few  blocks  off.  She  is  a  foreigner,  and  lazy,  at  that  ; 
but  I  'spose  it's  just  as  she  was  bro't  up  ;  and  now  she  ain't 
good  for  much  ;  she's  got  the  consumpted,  and  the  young  'un 
is  a  spiled,  headstrong  brat,  that's  come  up  anyhow,  playing 
on  fiddle-strings,  instead  of  learning  how  to  tidy  up,  and  set 
things  to  rights,  and  help  her  mother,  instead  o'  being  waited 
on.  They  are  no  objects  of  charity  ;  but  mistress  had  her  per- 
culiar  ways,  and,  while  she  was  Uving,  I  hadn't  nothing  to  say, 
if  she  helped  the  poor  Irish." 

"  Well — well" — replied  the  young  man,  impatiently,  "  enough 
of  your  opinions.  Have  you  seen  them  since  your  mistress's 
death  ?" 

"  Lord  ! — child,  no.  H'ain't  I  had  enough  to  do  to  clean 
up,  and  keep  the  lazy  servants  in  train,  without  runnin'  after 
beggars  ?" 

"  But  I  saw  you  sending  a  basket  of  things  somewhere,  by 
Timothy,  the  other  day." 

''  Well,  s'posing  I  did  ;  that's  not  seeing  them.  I  tho't  like 
as  not  there'd  be  occasion  enough  for  vittles,  as  mistress  used 
to  send  messes  to  the  sick  woman — delicacies  like  ;  and,  as 
better  than  three  weeks  had  gone  by,  I  thought  I'd  kinder  look 
to  their  case — not  that  I  approve  of  'em." 

"  You  are  not  so  hard-hearted,  after  all,  Benson." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  soft;  I  can  tell  you  ;  and  lazy  people  never 
make  much  out  o'  me,  especially  fiddlin'  foreigners  Like  as 
not,  this  black-haired  Romish  woman,  had  a  wooly,  hairy- 
lipped  monkey  for  a  husband,  that  never  could  raise  the  wind 
for  anything  but  a  bagpipe  ;  and  this  is  what  his  family  has 
come  to." 

"Then,  you  have  seen  them,  Benson?" 

"  Lord  !  how  you  question  me  !  How  could  I  help  just 
seeing  whether  they  was  dead  or  alive,  seeing  mistress  took  to 
'em  ?" 

"  Well,  Benson,  I  believe  your  bark  is  worse  than  your  bite 
I  am  going  to  find  them,  and  help  them  if  they  need  it." 


8  Isoka'sChild. 

"  Rather  new  business  for  you,  I'm  thinking  ;  but  I  s'pose 
you  mio:ht  be  in  worse.     Still  I  would  advise" — 

"  Benson,  there  is  one  thing,"  interrupted  young  Clarendon, 
"  that  I  wish  you  to  remember — that  I  am  of  age  ;  and, 
furthermore — none  of  your  savage  looks,  my  Lady  Dorothy — ■ 
that  no  branch  of  the  Clarendon  family  ever  submitted  to  be 
ruled  by  their  domestics." 

The  green  eyes  of  Miss  Dorothy  Benson  expanded  spasmo- 
dically ;  and  as  they  met  a  pair  which  gleamed  with  fire  and 
spirit,  more  grey  than  green,  her  own  became  suddenly  invisible 
behind  their  yellow  lids  ;  and  if  ever  an  expression  of  decided 
disapprobation  was  conveyed  in  hasty  angular  movements,  the 
short,  wiry  tread  of  the  nervous,  discomfited  housekeeper 
exhibited  the  like  emotion,  in  her  sudden,  unbecoming  flight 
from  the  presence  of  her  young  master,  out  of  the  breakfast- 
room. 

Left  alone,  young  Clarendon  pondered  on  his  new  situation, 
which  left  him  heir  to  a  handsome  estate,  in  the  City  of  Xew 
York,  and  sole  possessor  of  the  elegant  establishment  which  for 
many  years  had  been  the  home  of  his  family.  Since  the  age 
of  twelve,  he  had  been  the  only  survivino^  child  of  a  widowed 
mother,  whose  chief  aim  in  life  lay  in  securing  the  happiness  of 
her  wayward,  but  affectionate  son  ;  and  now,  as  he  moodily 
contemplated  the  past,  and  the  loss  of  that  sympathy  and 
tenderness,  which  was  unappreciated  until  lost,  he  buried  his 
head  in  his  hands,  and  silently  mourned. 

At  the  time  of  his  mother's  death,  valueless  seemed  to  him 
the  splendor  about  him,  heartless  the  tones  that  would  breathe 
consolation,  and  desolate  the  world,  where  disinterestedness 
and  sincerity  seemed  buried  in  his  mother's  new-made  grave. 
He  had  neither  brother  nor  sister  to  share  his  grief ;  and  none 
but  distant  relations  that  bore  the  name  of  either  parent.  As 
he  pondered  on  recent  events,  he  recalled  to  mind  each  wish 
expressed  in  his  mother's  last  illness,  each  tone  of  love  which 
blessed  him,  and  the  prayer  of  faith  that  left  him  in  the  hands 
of  the  God  in  whom  she  had  trusted. 

The  nature  of  the  hitherto  reckless  youth  seemed  changed  by 
affliction,  and  be  submissively  sought  to  obey  each  parental 
request,  each  dying  wish,  as  well  as  he  could  fathom  their 
import.  Filial  love,  and  regret  for  his  recent  loss,  awakened 
generous  impulses,  that  might  otherwise  have  lain  dormant  ; 
for  Louis   Clarendon  had  hitherto  only  thought  of  his  own 


Isora'sChild.  9 

gratification,  and  knew  notliinj^  of  the  exercise  of  self-denial, 
much  less  of  the  luxury  derived  from  affording-  relief  to  the 
indig-ent. 

Affliction  was  new  to  him  ;  sorrow  had  softened  his  heart — 
and  any  new  enterprise  demanding  action,  seemed  a  relief  to 
his  low  spirits. 

Six  weeks  after  the  death  of  his  parent,  he  sought  the  home 
of  Mrs.  Islington,  which  was  situated  in  a  retired  street,  pre 
senting  in  its  exterior  a  common  brick  front,  unattractive  and 
cheerless  iu  its  outward  aspect,  without  a  plate  to  mark  the 
residence  of  its  inmates.  But  Louis  Clarendon  soon  found 
them,  and  was  much  affected  by  the  gratitude  and  joy  evinced 
by  Mrs.  Islington,  by  a  visit  from  the  son  of  her  deceased 
friend  and  benefactor.  As  she  extended  him  her  wasted  fingers, 
he  looked  with  fascinated  wonder  upon  the  wreck  of  loveliness 
before  him.  But  the  dark  spiritual  eyes  of  the  sufferer  were 
too  sunken  longer  to  awaken  admiration,  and  the  pale  cheek 
too  hollow  to  excite  other  emotion  than  that  of  pity — and  yet 
what  Isora  Giocanti  had  been,  was  still  written  on  each 
superb  feature,  and  the  beauty  which  passeth  away,  had  not 
all  forsaken  the  temple  ruin,  but  lingered  as  the  golden  sun- 
light dies  in  the  west,  as  if  loth  to  desert  it.  As  the  trem- 
bling invalid's  face  was  averted,  Louis  Clarendon  looked  about 
him.  The  interior  arrangements  of  Mrs.  Islington's  house 
bespoke  taste  and  refinement,  and  a  struggle  to  preserve  the 
appearances  of  better  days  ;  still  desolation  was  written  oi? 
each  old  relic,  each  fragment  of  the  past. 

The  walls  of  the  room  to  which  he  was  admitted,  were 
covered  with  sketches  of  foreign  artists  ;  many  whose  coloring 
and  execution  told  of  the  immortal  genius  of  her  native  land. 

Curious  foreign  musical  instruments  lay  about  the  apart- 
ment ;  and  in  a  fanciful  cage  hung  an  English  mocking-bird. 
A  portrait  of  a  gentleman  was  suspended  in  a  small  recess  ; 
and  near  it,  evidently  a  painting  of  the  sick  woman  in  her 
earliest  bloom  and  beauty.  The  shadow  of  her  former  self  told 
this,  as  she  stood  beside  it — affording  so  interesting,  so  sad  a 
contrast  ! 

Old  Italian  relics  lay  about  the  room,  and  blossoming  plants 
sent  forth  their  odors  from  strange  specimens  of  earthenware  j 
and  some  were  placed  in  broken  images,  parts  of  old  statuary. 

The  sick  woman  looked  still  young,  and  seemed  extremely 
helpless,  and  truly  an  object  of  pity.     Turning  from  the  invalid, 

1* 


10  I  S  O  E  a'  S      0  H  I  L  D  . 

his  eye  rested  upon  a  little  girl  of  ten  years  of  age,  who  shrunk 
from  him  as  he  entered,  and  bent  over  the  strings  of  an  old 
lute,  while  she  screened  herself  partly  behind  her  mother. 

*'  Look  up,  Flora,"  said  Mrs.  Islington,  in  broken  English, 
"  the  gentleman  speaks  to  you — her  neglected  appearance  tells 
you  how  ill  I  am." 

Louis  Clarendon  felt  the  influence  of  something  gleaming, 
soft,  and  bright,  as  the  child's  cream-colored  lids  fell  on  a 
cheek  not  transparent,  but  stainless.  He  looked  for  the  starry 
eyes  to  reappear,  but  their  silken  ambush  was  too  heavy  and 
thick  to  suddenly  reveal  them  ;  and  if  not,  the  long,  wild  locks, 
blacker  still,  that  covered  her  cheeks  and  half  hid  her  little 
fingers,  would  have  effectually  screened  her  from  close  obser- 
vation. 

Tiie  appearance  of  the  child  amused  and  interested  the 
fashionable  young  man,  who  had  rarely  seen  childhood  out  of 
the  abodes  of  the  wealthy,  where  he  was  ever  successful  by 
bonbons,  or  caresses  in  winning  the  most  wayward  to  his  side 
for  a  frolic,  while  the  humor  lasted  ;  but  his  attempts  to  coax 
Flora  were  vain  ;  she  would  not  again  look  up,  but  shy  auc 
alarmed,  sunk  on  a  low  bench,  while  she  kept  her  tiny  supple 
fingers  on  the  chords  of  her  instrument,  over  which,  also,  huug 
the  mass  of  curls,  almost  unnaturally  long  and  luxuriant 
for  a  child. 

Seeing  her  inaccessible,  the  visitor  addressed  the  mother  ; 
and  disclosed  his  errand — informing  Mrs.  Islington  that  the 
dwelling  in  which  she  lived  she  could  retain  rent  free,  during 
her  life  ;  and  that  he  was  bound  by  his  mother's  request,  to 
provide  herself  and  child  with  an  a-nnual  sum  ;  and  that  by  so 
doing,  he  only  fulfilled  the  wishes  of  his  parent,  while  she 
incurred  no  debt  of  obligation  to  him. 

The  face  of  the  invalid  flushed  and  paled  by  turns,  while 
she  with  difficulty  articulated  her  thanks.  Finally,  recovering 
herself,  she  spoke  them  feehngly  ;  and  sunk  exhausted,  in- 
wardly murmuring  : 

'*  Oh  !  Robert — to  wdiat  have  you  brought  me  1  beggary-^ 
charity — alas  !  I  fear,  shame  !  Thank  God  our  child  will  not 
suffer — thy  child — yes,  Robert,  thy  deserted  one  !" 

Louis  Clarendon  heard  nothing  from  the  pallid  lips,  but  he 
felt  satisfied  that  his  mother's  charity  had  not  been  misplaced. 
He  endeavored  to  draw  from  Mrs.  Islington  some  particulars 
of  her  situation  :  and  begged  her  to  inform  him  in  what  way 


I  S  O  K  a'  S      C  II  I  L  D  .  H 

he  could  best  promote  her  comfort.  He  had  promised  to  send 
her  a  physician,  and  to  supply  her  with  a  nurse  ;  but  the  last 
kindness  she  refused,  preferring,  she  said,  to  remain  alone  with 
little  Flora. 

'•  Can  I  not  do  something  for  her  ?"  said  the  young  man, 
looking  at  the  child. 

"  Oh  !  if  she  would  be  instructed  !  but  she  loves  music — 
she  can  be  taught  that .'" 

The  conversation  which  followed  awakened  the  attention  of 
the  little  girl — who  raised  her  eyes  with  a  startled,  earnest 
look,  while  her  pale  cheek  reddened  with  a  momentary  glow, 
giving  new  lustre  to  a  face  peculiar  and  fascinating.  Her 
form  was  slight,  inclining  to  be  tall ;  and  the  play  of  her 
little  glancing  feet,  and  graceful  action,  to  the  eye  of  Claren- 
don, was  poetry  itself.  But,  as  yet,  there  was  no  round 
development  to  her  form,  and  little  Flora,  to  the  careless 
eye,  was  little  else  than  a  shy,  slender,  brunette  child,  who 
might  have  been  good-looking  with  ordinary  care,  but  who, 
with  her  uncombed  hair,  and  neglected  attire,  attracted  little 
attention. 

''  Flora,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  as  she  drew  nearer  to 
catch  the  bearing  of  their  conversation,  "  if  you  will  come  to 
me,  you  shall  go  to  school,  and  have  a  piano  to  play  on,  much 
prettier  than  the  crazy  fiddle  that  you  have  there." 

As  the  visitor  spoke,  he  drew  the  reluctant  child  towards 
him,  while  he  played  with  the  strings  of  her  instrument,  draw- 
ing forth  such  discordant  sounds,  that,  in  spite  of  the  child's 
diffidence,  she  burst  into  a  ringing  laugh,  which,  for  a  moment, 
seemed  to  establish  some  companionship  between  her  and  her 
new  patron. 

"  Then  you  don't  like  my  music  V  said  the  young  man, 
laughing  ;  "  show  me,  then,  what  you  can  do — but  first  let  me 
put  back  all  this  troublesome  hair  ;  you  have  enough  for  all 
the  belles  on  Broadway." 

"  She  only  fingers  an  accompaniment  by  ear,  to  her  songs," 
said  her  mother,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"  Sing  then  for  me,  Flora  ;  one  sweet  song.  If  you  will,  I 
will  bring  you  a  bird." 

The  little  girl  shrunk  back  again  at  the  touch  of  her  hair ; 
and  was  sliding  into  her  old  resting-place,  when  Mr.  Claren- 
don whispered  a  few  words  in  hei*  ear,  which  caused  her  to 
seek  her  mother's  side,  and  to  hide  her  face  in  her  lap,  while 


12  Isora'sChild, 

she  sobbed,  "  I  dou't  want  to  go  away — I  doa  t  want  to  go  to 
school — I  don't  want  a  piano — I  like  ray  luty — I  do — and  I 
hate  to  go  to  school." 

"  You  have  never  heard  one  in  America,  poor  child  !"  said 
her  mother,  tenderly,  "  so  talk  to  the  gentleman — don't  be  so 
shy." 

"  But  I  have  heard  music,  mama,  at  the  opera  with  papa. 
I  wish  I  could  go  there — but  I  don't  want  to  go  to  school." 

Louis  Clarendon  looked  at  the  ueglected-looking  child,  with 
her  old  faded  dress  drooping  from  her  shoulders,  at  her  tiny 
feet,  and  then  at  the  fascinating  gipsy  little  face,  now  lit  up 
with  radiance,  at  the  remembrance  of  an  opera  ;  and  the 
thought  crossed  his  mind  that  he  would  gratify  her  again  with 
the  same  enjoyment. 

He  fancied  the  idea  of  witnessing  her  dehght — a  child's 
unaffected  enthusiasm  for  melody,  so  rarely  enjoyed  ;  and  he 
believed  that  the  little  girl  was  one  to  appreciate  the  kindness. 

The  idea,  he  thought,  might  be  absurd,  but  it  was  to  him 
none  the  less  pleasing  ;  so  the  little  Flora  w^as  soon  over- 
whelmed with  joy  at  the  pleasure  in  store  for  her. 

"But  remember,"  said  young  Clarendon,  "that  you  must 
reward  me  by  singing  for  me  at  my  own  house,  where  we  can 
have  a  concert  together,  and  be  good  friends  ever  after." 

The  young  man  extended  his  hand  while  he  spoke,  which 
little  Flora  clasped,  while  she  exclaimed,  eagerly:  "  Wnen 
shall  we  go  ?— to-night  ?— oh,  yes,  to-night  !" 

"  No,  not  to-night ;  but  sometime  I  will  come  for  you.  I 
must  say  good-bye,  now  ;  but  I  won't  forget  my  promise." 

The  sparkling  face  of  the  little  girl  was,  for  the  time,  radi- 
ant with  pleasure  ;  and  she  still  let  her  little  downy  hand  rest 
in  that  of  her  new  friend,  while  she  occasionally  glanced,  from 
under  her  long  eyelashes,  at  the  eyes  that  watched  her.  After 
the  departure  of  their  visitor,  little  Flora  grew  pale  and 
pensive,  and  sat  so  still  and  quiet  while  she  hugged  her  instru- 
ment, that  her  mother  roused  her,  and  asked  her  if  she  was 
going  to  sleep. 

^*0h,  no,  mama,"  she  said;  *' I  was  thinking  of  the  time 
papa  took  me  on  board  ship,  to  hear  the  music  on  deck.  He 
used  to  love  to  hear  you  sing,  too,  mama  ;  but  he  didn't  like 
to  have  you  go  with  us  out  of  the  cabin.  He  didn't  like  to 
have  me  call  him  pa.  Why  don't  he  come  back  ?  Is  he  dead, 
in^ma.?" 


Isoka'sChild.  13 

"  Hush  !  bush,  darling.  Yes,  be  must  be  dead  !"  The 
mother  heaved  a  long  sigh,  and  such  a  look  of  anguish  settled 
over  her  face,  as  little  Flora  had  rarely  seen. 

*'  I  wish  he  hadn't  died,  mama.  You  used  to  be  so  glad 
when  he  came  to  see  us." 

"  Oh,  Flora  !  better  we  had  all  died  before  we  came  to  this 
desolation  in  a  strange  land.     Oh  !  why  did  he  leave  us  I'' 

"  Can't  we  go  back  to  Italy,  mama  ?"  The  deserted  Tsora 
shuddered,  and  her  head  dropped  in  her  hands.  "  No,  no,"  she 
murmured,  incoherently,  in  her  native  tongue  ;  "  we  have 
abandoned  our  home,  and  we  will  wait  for  him  here — yes, 
though  we  die  with  sad  yearnings.  How  we  loved  him,  my 
darling  !  and  how  he  loved  us  !"  A  low  cry  of  anguish  accom- 
panied these  words,  which  drew  her  little  daughter  to  the 
arms  of  her  weeping  mother.  Flora  understood  little  of  the 
import  of  her  mother's  language,  and  her  history  was  so 
unknown,  and  her  residence  so  obscure,  that  few  asked  any 
particulars  relative  to  her  former  life  or  her  present  situation. 
She  spoke  Httle  English,  though  her  child  accented  the  lan- 
guage clearly  and  musically,  softened  somewhat  by  a  slight 
foreign  accent  ;  but  we  give  her  conversations  without  their 
imperfect  utterance. 

"In  Italy,  mama,  we  used  to  see  him  very  often  ;  but  after 
he  brought  us  here,  he  didn't  seem  the  same.  I  remember  how 
you  cried  to  go  to  England  with  him,  and  how  he  kissed  you 
and  said  :  '  I  will  go  first,  and  then  come  and  carry  you  to  my 
English  home,  and  there  you  will  be  honored  as  my  wife.'  I 
remember  this,  mama,  because  I  listened  to  all  he  said.  I  am 
glad  that  I  didn't  go  and  leave  you,  too.  Mayn't  I  call  him 
papa,  now  that  he  is  dead  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Flora  ;  he  was  your  father,  and  my  husband." 
Mrs.  Islington  then  gently  put  her  daughter  aside,  while  she 
laid  down  her  head,  and  murmured  :  "  Yes,  yes  ;  he  was  my 
husband,  if  he  never  called  me  wife." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  so,  with  your  head  down  on  the  bed, 
mama  ?  I  can't  hear  you,"  said  Flora.  "  I  am  so  glad  that  I 
am  going  to  the  opera.     lie  isn't  ugly  ;  is  he,  mama  ?" 

"  Who  ? — the  young  gentleman  ?    Oh,  no  ;  he  is  very  good." 

"  But  he  wants  to  take  me  away  from  you,  to  a  school  ;  but 
I' won't  go  ;  no,  I  won't — I  won't." 

"Don't  you  wish  to  learn,  my  daughter?  Oh!  if  I  bad 
been  better  taught,  I  could  better  bear  my  situation — I  could 


14  I  S  0  K  a'  S      C  II  I  L  D  . 

now  write  to  your  pcapa  in  English,  if — if  I  knew  where  ho 
was." 

"  But  he  is  dead — you  can't  write  to  him  now." 

"  Yes  —so  I  fear — he  may  have  left  us  for  ever  ;  You  must 
try  to  please  Mr.  Clarendon.  We  shall  not  have  to  move, 
now  ;  we  can  live  here  while  my  life  is  spared." 

The  foreign  mother  stopped.  She  could  not  speak  freely  of 
her  death  to  her  little  daughter  ;  though  she  felt  herself  daily 
growing  weaker,  she  could  not  yet  take  from  her  child,  her  only 
sunlight.  She  had  for  two  years  borne  her  worse  than  wid- 
owed lot,  for  he  whom  she  called  her  husband  had  brought  her 
to  a  strange  land,  and  deserted  her  in  her  helplessness.  She 
looked  back  to  her  native  country  with  sad  yearnings,  for  there 
she  had  loved  and  wedded,  as  she  believed,  Robert  Islington. — 
and  though  to  her  but  an  acquaintance  of  three  months  at  the 
time  of  their  nuptials,  her  faith  in  him  had  been  entire.  She 
reluctantly  consented  to  follow  him  to  America,  but  believed 
that  she  should  soon  return  to  Europe,  and  visit  her  husband's 
friends,  as  he  had  promised  her  ;  but  suddenly  she  was  informed 
that,  without  her,  he  must  go  to  England  ;  and  so,  with  tears 
on  her  part,  and  promises  of  fidelity  on  his,  the  husband  and 
wife  parted.  Mystery,  therefore,  veiled  her  life,  to  those  who 
only  heard  her  indiscreet  murmurings  ;  and  from  which  they 
gathered  the  suspicion  that  she  was  not  the  lawful  wife  of  him 
whose  name  she  bore.  Little  had  been  seen  of  the  gentleman 
who  brought  her  to  America.  A  rumor  was  circulated  that 
one  of  a  distinguished  but  unostentatious  appearance,  had,  on 
her  first  arrival,  been  seen  to  visit  her  abode,  when  he  suddenly 
disappeared  ;  and  had  not  been  heard  of  since.  But  she  had 
not  been  left  penniless.  Liberal  sums  were  deposited  for  her, 
which  she  drew  monthly,  for  some  time  after  the  absence  of 
Mr.  Islington  ;  but  they  ceased  after  a  year  had  passed,  and 
she  heard  no  more  either  of  coming  supplies,  or  of  him  who  had 
furnished  them  ;  and  she  sometimes  believed  herself  a  widow. 
Mrs.  Clarendon  accidentally  heard  of  the  desolate  situation  of 
the  invalid,  and  had  been  a  benefactor  to  the  mother  and 
child.  But  the  sudden  death  of  this  benevolent  woman 
brought  to  the  heart  of  the  sufferer  renewed  anguish. 

Weeks  had  passed  since  that  event  ;  and  she  remained  in 
anxious  suspense  regarding  the  situation  of  the  property 
which  her  husband  had  rented.  But  when  she  found  that 
even  in  the  dying  moments  of  Mrs.  Clarendon,  she  had  been 


Isora'sChild.  15 

remembered,  and  that  she  and  her  child  were  not,  as  she  had 
supposed,  homeless,  she  was  deeply  grateful.  She  was  a  for 
eigner,  in  the  outskirts  of  a  city — a  fast-failing  invalid,  and  also 
helpless  from  her  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  country  and  its 
customs.  She  became,  therefore,  a  prey  to  dejection — some- 
times, though  seldom,  doubting  the  honor  of  her  husband,  yet 
pondering  on  the  mystery  of  his  conduct.  "  Why,"  she  asked 
herself,  "  did  he  require  their  union  kept  a  secret  from  his  fam- 
ily ?  Why  had  he  forbidden  her  to  reveal  the  event,  and  why 
had  he,  loving  her  as  he  had  done,  fled  with  her  to  a  foreign 
shore,  and  then  deserted  her  ?"  Her  heart  rebelled  at  the 
cruel  suspicion  that  sometimes  haunted  her  miud  ;  and  she 
hourly  recalled  each  endearing  word  that  blessed  her  as  a  wife. 
But,  at  last,  hope  deserted  her — her  faith  wasted  away  like  her 
fragile  form.  She  had  found  a  fragment  of  a  letter  written  by 
her  husband,  evidently  commenced  but  never  finished  ;  which 
contained  a  clause  that  burned  like  fire  into  her  brain,  and 
subsequently  caused  her  death.  A  few  words  will  reveal  its 
purport.  It  was  addressed  to  his  brother,  and  after  speaking 
fondly  of  his  wife  and  child,  concluded  with — "  Poor  Isora  ! 
She  is  yet  ignorant  of  my  deception  ; — would  to  God  that  I 
could  call  her,  in  reality,  my  wife  !" 

The  ill-fated,  heart-stricken  Isora  did  not  die  at  once.  The 
iron  was  suffered  to  enter  her  soul,  while  the  supposed  victim 
of  treachery  and  sorrow  pined  away  her  young  existence.  In 
silence  she  mourned — for  her  child's  sake  she  kept  her  dread 
secret  unrevealed  ;  while  she  nursed  the  hope  of  saving  her  the 
blight  of  a  mother's  disgraced  name.  She  felt  that  her  little 
Flora  was  illy  calculated  to  struggle  with  crushed  pride, 
and  she  trembled  for  the  fate  of  her  orphan  child,  too  sensitive, 
too  affectionate  for  her  coming  desolation,  and  when  she  saw 
that  love  alone  could  soothe  her  in  her  stormy  moods,  she  wept 
to  think  that  when  she  was  gone,  on  no  sympathizing  bosom 
might  her  little  weary  head  be  laid. 

But  there  were  moments  of  hope  still  left  to  the  sufferer 
(there  are  few  that  heaven  permits  to  go  deprived  of  all),  and 
she  sometimes  felt  that  when  spring's  sunny  days  came  again, 
she  should  grow  better,  and  that  she  might  live  to  secure  a 
home  for  her  child  in  her  native  land. 

Flora  grew  very  impatient  for  the  expected  visit  of  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon, who  was  to   take  her  to  the  opera  ;  and  talked  so 


16  Isoka'sOhild. 

long  of  her  anticipated  pleasure,  that  her  mother  feared  much 
the  result  of  disappointment  to  her.  The  ill-health  of  Mrs. 
Isling'ton  prevented  the  exercise  of  that  firmness  with  her  child 
that  Flora's  nature  required  ;  and  her  temper  was  allowed  to 
go  undisciplined,  and  her  will  ungoverned.  She  could  not  bear 
patiently  opposition  to  her  wishes  :  though  to  her  mother, 
Flora's  vehement  feelings  were  seldom  displayed,  unless  in 
accents  of  fond  endearment.  She  seemed  to  realize  her  physi- 
cal weakness  ;  and  her  gentle  words,  or  a  tear  from  her  eye, 
was  potent  to  soothe,  and  calm  the  irritation  her  playmates 
might  have  excited. 

One  sunny  morning,  a  note  was  presented  Mrs.  Islington  by 
a  servant,  which  proved  to  contain  an  invitation  for  Flora  from 
Mr.  Clarendon  to  go  to  the  promised  place  of  amusement  the 
same  evening.  The  child  was  wild  with  excitement,  and  mani- 
fested so  much  delight,  that  her  mother  tried  to  subdue  her  joy 
in  vain  ;  she  skipped,  danced,  and  sung,  and  not  until  she  saw 
that  her  gaiety  caused  a  sigh  to  come  from  the  anxious  being 
that  watched  her  emotion,  was,  she  quelled,  and  induced  to 
inquire  "  why  her  mother  looked  sad  ?" 

"  I  was  fearing,  my  love,  that  you  would  be  too  happy  to- 
night (you  know  that  you  perhaps  will  never  go  again),  and  I 
feared  so  much  that  was  brilliant,  beautiful,  and  gay,  would 
make  my  sick  room  a  dull  place  for  you  to-morrow.  But  you 
must  not  think  all  happiness  is  found  in  such  places.  Suppos- 
ing you  could  live  where  all  was  light,  music  and  enjoyment, 
while  you  were  idle,  and  leading  a  useless  life,  do  you  think 
you  would  be  happier  than  if  you  tried  to  do  some  one  good, 
made  some  poor  aching  heart  happier  ?  Music  is  very  sweet, 
my  darling,  and  all  places  of  amusement  pleasant,  and  it  is 
right  sometimes  for  us  to  enjoy  them  ;  but  if  we  allow  them  to 
please  us  so  much  that  home  and  friends,  and  the  duties  that 
we  must  perform,  seem  dull  and  distasteful  after  them,  we  had 
better  never  go  to  any." 

Little  Flora's  eagerness  was  softened  by  her  mother's  words, 
and  she  assured  her  with  fond  kisses,  so  often,  that  home  would 
be  just  as  pleasant,  and  old  lutey  just  as  sweet  after  all  the 
fine  music  she  would  hear,  that  her  happiness  was  infectious  ; 
and  the  smile  on  the  lips  of  the  little  daughter  fast  radiated 
the  countenance  of  the  sad  mother. 

As  evening  came  on.  Flora's  impatience  increased,  and  she 


Isora'sChild.  17 

so  often  ran  to  the  clock  to  see  the  time,  that  the  watchful 
spirit  that  viewed  her,  was  not  long  in  plotting  some  scheme  to 
occupy  her  mind. 

Her  assistance  was  required  in  the  tea  preparations,  after 
which  meal  the  discussion  of  her  dress  became  a  matter  of  vast 
importance.  Flora  proposed  to  wear  on  her  head  a  turban 
and  feathers,  which  she  had  found  in  the  attic  among  old  relics, 
because  she  remembered  that  when  she  went  with  her  papa 
that  the  ladies  had  them  on,  but,  observing  her  mother's  smile, 
she  changed  her  mind,  with  the  sage  conclusion,  that  she  sup- 
posed those  that  wore  them  "hadn't  any  hair,  and  so  they 
wore  feathers,''^  but  that  she  thought  a  rose  would  look  best  in 
hers.  The  question  was  therefore  decided  in  favor  of  the  rose  ; 
and  after  arraying  herself  in  an  old,  time-worn  white  muslin 
dress,  more  fully  displaying  her  slender  ankles,  and  tiny  feet, 
she  looked  more  fairy-like  than  ever. 

While  she  was  dressing,  her  mother  had  gathered  from  a 
rose-bush  at  the  door,  a  few  pale  buds,  and  tied  them  into  a 
small  wreath,  and  laid  them  with  a  fond  kiss  on  the  childish  brow 
of  her  little  daughter,  as  she  seated  herself  on  her  knees  by 
the  window,  to  watch  for  the  coming  of  one  who  had  caused 
many  an  older  heart  to  beat  with  the  same  fluttering  pleasure, 
though  her  attitude  was  more  devotional  than  a  city  belle  would 
have  assumed.  Flora,  in  her  guileless  simplicity,  little  thought 
of  the  many  wondering  eyes  that  would  be  fastened  upon  her 
new  friend, 'at  his  reappearance  in  the  fashionable  world  ;  and 
of  the  curious  ones  that  would  remark  his  new  protege. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  as  much  surprised  himself  at  his  conde- 
scension, and  amiability  ;  and  more  at  his  abandonment  of 
ceremony,  in  introducing  into  his  box,  under  his  protection,  a 
little  ill-dressed,  untutored  child,  whom  he  had  but  once  seen, 
and  who  might  shock  his  fastidious  taste  by  her  appearance, 
and  grotesque  manners.  He,  however,  true  to  his  word,  pro- 
ceeded in  a  carriage  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Islington.  He  had 
previously  procured  an  opera  cloak  of  satin  and  swan's  down, 
to  wrap  his  charge  in  ;  and,  if  necessary,  to  cover  up  her  poor 
attire  ;  a  garment  as  unsuitable  in  its  elegance,  for  the  child, 
as  the  turban  and  feathers  which  she  had  herself  proposed  for 
her  head. 

Flora  met  him  at  the  door,  in  her  short,  white  slip — her  bare 
arms  and  neck  nearly  enveloped  in  her  wild-looking  black  curls, 
gaily   relieved   with    the   white    rose-buds.      Her   eyes    were 


18  Isoka'sChild. 

radiant,  and  her  cheeks  and  lips  bright  from  excitement.  Mv. 
Clarendon  smiled  at  the  vision  of  eager  joy  she  presented  ; 
and  coming  towards  her,  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  into 
the  house — presenting  her,  at  the  same  time, — a  white 
japotiica. 

"  I  find  your  little  girl  ready,"  said  he,  to  her  invalid  mother, 
who  now  stood  like  a  phantom,  eagerly  watching  her  little  daugh- 
ter. Her  eyes  moistened  when  she  saw  the  beautiful  flower 
he  had  given  her.     It  had  been  her  own  favorite  adornment. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  ."  and  I  hope  she  won't  trouble  you. 
Bring  her  home  early  as  convenient."  She  smiled  gratefully, 
when  the  young  gentleman  promised  to  take  good  care  of  her  ; 
and  when  she  saw  how  carefully  he  wrapped  her  in  the  beauti- 
ful cloak  he  had  provided,  and  how  gently  he  lifted  her  into 
the  carriage,  and  placed  her  beside  him,  her  tears  fell — but 
they  were  caused  by  mingled  emotions.  Who  but  a  broken- 
hearted widow  can  tell  that  fond  mother's  feelings,  as  she 
viewed  that  little  fatherless  one  going  forth  in  her  childish 
glee  from  the  only  heart  that  loved  her,  to  seek  in  the  world 
transitory  but  alluring  pleasure  !  who  but  such  an  one,  can 
realize  the  throb  of  anguish  she  felt,  when  she  remembered  that 
but  two  years  since,  a  father's  protecting  arm  shielded  her 
darling  child,  and  that  now,  ere  long,  she  must  be  left  wholly  to 
stranger's  guidance  ! 

The  carriage  drove  away.  She  was  left  sick  and  alone, 
without  her  darling,  for  the  first  time  at  night.  Her  child 
could  not  be  saddened  now  ;  and  she  fell  on  her  knees  and 
wept,  as  Flora  had  never  seen  her  do — for  she  was  too  self- 
denying  to  embitter  her  early  years  by  sad  repinings.  She 
knew  that  she  had  little  to  make  her  childhood  glad  ;  and  that 
to  rob  her  of  what  few  pleasures  Heaven  granted  her,  was  like 
stealing  dew  and  sunshine  from  a  tender,  neglected  plant ;  and 
she  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  her  ever  feeling  the  mildew 
of  blight  and  sorrow. 

In  the  meanwhile  Mr.  Clarendon  had  nestled  little  Flora 
close  to  his  side,  while  he  amused  himself  with  her  artless 
sallies  and  rapturous  expressions  at  the  enjoyment  in  store  for 
lier.  She  had  never  been  out  before  at  night  ;  the  lights  and 
the  brilliant  shops  attracted  her  wondering  eyes,,  which,  added 
to  the  delight  of  riding  in  a  carriage,  caused  her  to  be  so 
merry  and  elated,  that  Mr.  Clarendon  feared  some  extravagant 
outburst  after  her  arrival  at  the  opera.     "You  know,"  said 


I  £  O  R  a'  S      C  11  I  L  D  .  19 

he,  "that  you  must  not  be  so  excited,  but  nmain  very  quiet, 
and  listen  to  the  play  and  niufic." 

He  was  not  used  to  children ;  and  did  not  know  that 
Flora's  awe-struck,  beating  heart  would  be  silenced  with 
tumultuous  joy,  when  overwhelmed  with  the  intoxication  of 
delicious  music — he  knew  nothing  of  the  child's  intense,  inhe- 
rent passion  for  melody — so,  after  introducing  her  into  his 
box,  and  placing  her  beside  him,  he  for  a  time  watched  her 
with  some  solicitude,  lest  she  should  offend  his  sense  of  pro- 
priety, and  attract  more  attention  than  would  be  agreeable  to 
aps  fastidious  taste  in  public.  But,  contrar.y  to  his  expecta- 
tions, as  he  unpinned  her  cloak,  and  watched  her  expanded 
eyes,  he  wondered  why  she  grew  so  white,  and  what  caused 
her  little  frame  to  tremble — he  knew  nothing  of  the  passion- 
ate, delicate  organization  of  the  little  being  he  guarded,  or  of 
the  vibration  of  chords,  more  delicately  strung  than  earthly 
mechanism  e'er  framed.  Flora  was  a  little  harp  of  herself,  and 
the  wires  were  of  purest  gold.  As  the  orchestra  struck  up  a 
brilliant  prelude  as  she  entered,  her  eyes  swam,  and  iier  head 
grew  giddy,  and,  with  parted  lips  and  almost  breathless  pale- 
ness, she  clung  with  both  her  hands  to  the  arm  of  her  compa- 
nion— speechless  and  transported.  Mr.  Clarendon  feared  that 
she  was  ill  ;  he  drew  from  his  pocket  an  exquisite  fan,  and 
commenced  using  it,  while  he  said,  "  You  will  be  better  soon," 

But  Flora  did  not  wish  to  be  better  ;  she  was  in  a  heaven 
of  enjoyment,  and  looked  like  a  seraph  in  her  rapture.  She 
only  begged  him  with  her  eyes  not  to  speak  to  her,  but  to 
leave  her  alone  and  happy.  The  curtain  rose — she  sat  still, 
almost  motionless.  Mr.  Clarendon,  finding  her  so  quiet, 
became  less  solicitous ;  and  leaned  back,  satisfied  with  his 
situation  and  his  little  charge.  His  thoughts  were  elsewhere  ; 
and  he  cared  little  for  the  observant  eyes  upon  him,  or  for  the 
fair  and  beautiful  around  him,  who  eagerly  watched  the 
movements  of  the  wealthy  and  high-bred  heir  of  the  vast 
Clarendon  property. 

"Who  is  that  little  black-haired  witch  with  Clarendon?'^ 
said  a  young  beau,  in  an  adjoining  box,  "  he  seems  as  much 
absorbed  with  her,  as  if  she  was  the  belle  of  the  season.  A 
queer  freak  of  his,  to  bring  such  a  gipsy  with  him." 

"I  think  he  had  better  have  dressed  her  first,"  said  the 
lady  ;  "she  is  the  oddest  looking  child  that  I  ever  saw." 

"  And  yet  one  can't  help  looking  at  her,"  hei   companion 


20  Isoea'sChild. 

continued,  with   a  laugh.     "Take  jour  glass,  and  watch  the 
expression  of  her  eyes." 

"  I  am  more  amused  with  those  of  her  guardian's — this  is 
romantic  truly — where  did  he  pick  up  the  child  ?  Pray  go 
around,  and  ask  him." 

"  See  her,  quick  !  I  believe  she  is  fainting — her  head  has 
dropped." 

"  Gone  to  sleep,  I  suppose — Clarendon's  arm  seems  to  be 
around  her.  He  looks  quite  paternal,  or  lover-like,  with  his 
little  gipsy." 

The  last  scene  'had  been  enacted,  and  never  had  the  per- 
formers more  brilliantly  executed  their  parts. 

As  the  last  melting  strains  of  the  music  died  away,  and  the 
voice  of  Lucia  di  Lamraermoor,  in  tones  sweet  and  thrilling, 
floated  in  one  lingering  note  of  melody.  Flora  could  no  longer 
restrain  her  tears  ;  and  fell  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Clarendon, 
sobbino;  with  uncontrolled  emotion. 

"  Flora, "  said  the  latter,  ''  I  told  you,  you  must  be  quiet. 
What  are  you  crying  for  ?  We  must  go  now. — Haven't  you 
enjoyed  yourself  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  I  hear  it  now — I  can't  help  it,  let  me  cry." 

"  Wait  then  till  we  get  into  the  carriage  ;  this  is  no  place 
for  scenes.  Flora,  excepting  on  the  stage.  There,  take  my 
handkerchief — dry  your  eyes  and  come  with  me.  Stop,  your 
cloak  is  not  close  enough,  and  your  flowers  are  all  awry,  you 
are  as  crazy  as  a  little  loon." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  not,  but  it  was  so  beautiful .'" 

They  soon  found  the  carriage,  and  Flora  remained  very  quiet 
for  a  long  time  ;  though  Mr.  Clarendon  could  feel  the  excited 
pulse  of  the  little  hand  that  rested  in  bis,  while  he  placed  her 
beside  him,  and  bade  her  "  sit  avvay  from  the  night  air,  and  to 
be  sure  and  not  to  take  cold." 

They  were  soon  home,  and  Flora  in  her  mother's  arms,  her 
heart  swelling  and  her  eyes  glistening  with  the  pleasure  she 
had  enjoyed.  She  did  not  thank  Mr.  Clarendon,  or  scarcely 
bid  him  good  night  ;  but  she  held  up  her  little  Japonica 
blossom,  and  said  :  "  I  will  keep  this  in  water,  and  then  I  will 
have  something  left  ;  this  will  not  go  away  like  you  and  the 
music." 

"  Keep  it  till  I  come  again,  Flora,  and  then  I  will  bring  you 
another  ;  and  remember  the  concert  we  are  to  have  at  my 
house." 


Isora'sChild.  21 

"  But  I  can't  find  it,  I  don't  know  where  you  live." 

"That  is  true.    Well  I  must  go  now,"   The  young  gentleman 

shook  hands  with  the  mother,  and  with  a  smile  for  Flora,  left 

for  his  home. 


CHAPTER,    II. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life. 

Byron. 

MR.  CLARENDON'S  plans  for  the  future  were  vague  and 
dreamy.  He  had  hitherto  lived  a  Ufe  of  pleasure,  though 
he  had  indolently  pursued  his  law  studies,  since  his  return  from 
college.  He  was  fond  of  any  intellectual  pursuit,  and  perse- 
vering in  any  aim  which  inspired  his  ambition  ;  but  the 
visionary  project  which  he  had  recently  nursed,  of  taking  an 
extensive  tour  abroad,  unfitted  him  for  actual  exertion  at 
home. 

Consequently,  he  passed  his  hours  in  luxurious  indolence, 
with  a  circle  of  bachelor  friends,  who  w^ere  ever  ready  to  help 
him  waste  his  time  and  money.  His  violent  grief  for  his 
mother's  death  wore  away  ;  and  in  excitement,  he  drowned  the 
sorrow  that  for  three  months  had  weighed  heavily  upon  his 
spirits. 

Having  satisfied  his  conscience  with  the  fulfillment  of  his 
mother's  wishes  regarding  Mrs.  Islington,  and  gratified  the 
fancy  of  the  child  in  going  to  the  opera,  although  he  some- 
times thought  of  little  Flora,  they  retained  no  strong  hold  of  his 
memory  ;  and  in  more  exciting  scenes  the  widow  and  her  little 
daughter  were  forgotten.  He  perhaps  would  never  have  again 
recalled  them,  had  he  not  chanced,  w^hile  pursuing  his  way  to 
his  office,  to  have  caught  sight  of  the  little  girl  standing  by 
some  baskets  of  strawberries,  looking  at  them  eagerly,  and 
wistfully. 

The  dress  of  the  child  was  foreign  in  its  style  ;  and  seemed 
made  of  faded  bits  of  odd  material.  She  wore  a  straw  hat 
tied  down  at  the  ears,  which  half-concealed  her  face.  Mr. 
Clarendon  hesitated,  then  finally  resolved  to  speak  to  her. 

"  Flora,"  said  he,  "  what  are  you  looking  at  ?" 


22  Isoka'sChild. 

The  color  of  the  child  mounted  at  the  address  of  her  old 
friend,  whose  coming  she  had  long  looked  for.  Her  eyes 
showed  her  glad  surprise,  but  her  tones  faltered  as  she  said, 

"My  mother  would  like  some  strawberries." 

"  She  shall  have  some,  then,  Flora  ;  but  first,  we  will  buy  a 
pretty  basket,  and  then  fill  it  with  more  than  these  little  ones 
can  hold  :  wait  here  a  moment."  The  basket  was  soon  bought, 
and  soon  filled  with  the  fresh  beautiful  fruit  for  the  invalid 
mother  and  her  little  delighted  daughter. 

"  She  will  be  so  glad  !'  said  the  child,  as  she  turned  towards 
home. 

"  You  have  not  been  to  see  me,  as  you  promised,  Flora," 
said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  But  I  don't  know  where  you  live." 

"Come  with  me  now,  and  I  will  show  you." 

"  But  my  mother  will  so  like  the  strawberries." 

"  And  don't  you  like  them,  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  she  is  sick,  and  her  grapes  are  all  gone." 

Mr.  Clarendon  felt  reproached  ;  he  knew  his  mother  would 
not  have  allowed  the  invalid  to  pine  for  any  luxury  which  she 
could  have  provided  her. 

"  Well,  tlien,  take  home  the  berries,  and  come  to  this  same 
spot,  when  the  clock  strikes  twelve.     Will  you  remember  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes."  The  little  girl  was  soon  out  of  sight,  her  cheeks 
now  bright  as  her  berries,  and  Mr.  Clarendon  thought  her  lips 
were  much  redder. 

Flora  was  on  the  spot  at  the  appointed  hour,  with  her  hair 
neatly  dressed,  and  a  smile  beaming  on  her  face.  She  brought 
many  kind  messages  from  her  mother,  which  were  incoherently 
delivered,  in  her  excitement  to  see  Mr.  Clarendon's  home. 

But  when  she  arrived  there,  and  was  greeted  by  the  stiff 
housekeeper  with  a  stare  of  surprise,  and  by  the  other  ser- 
vants, who  saw  her  from  the  basement,  as  she  went  up  the 
high  steps  with  their  master,  she  shrunk  affrighted,  and  wanted 
to  go  back.  "  But  you  have  not  been  into  the  parlor  yet, 
Flora,"  said  Mr  Clarendon.  "  I  have,  too,  some  flowers  and 
birds  to  show  you  ;  and  then,  you  know,  you  promised  to  sing 
to  me  after  you  came." 

"  Do  you  live  here  with  that  woman  ?"  said  Flora,  eying  the 
housekeeper  in  the  distance. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  no  one  to  live  with  me  now  but  servanta 
Won't  you  stay  with  me  ?" 


I  S  O  K  A  '  S      C  H  I  L  D  .  23 

"  And  leave  my  mother  !"  The  child's  eyes  opened  with 
reproach  and  feeling. 

''  Oh,  no,  Flora  ;  but  you  will  come  often  ;  and  you  shall  be 
my  little  sister,  and  go  to  school,  and  learn  to  play  on  my  harp 
and  piano.  Come  with  me  now,  and  we  will  see  if  you  remem- 
ber any  of  your  opera-music." 

Flora  was  dazzled  and  delighted  with  the  beautiful  things 
she  saw,  and  ran  from  one  picture  to  another,  and  viewed  her- 
self at  length  in  each  spacious  mirror,  and  fell  into  ecstasies 
with  the  "  little  boys  and  girls,"  as  she  called  the  statuettes 
and  marble  figures  which  ornamented  the  rooms  ;  but  one 
touch  of  the  melodious  instrument  on  which  Mr.  Clarendon 
played,  brought  her  to  his  side. 

"  You  sing,  Flora,  and  I  will  play,"  said  he. 

The  child  was  instantly  inspired  ;  and,  in  clear,  superb  tones, 
warbled  an  Italian  song,  with  compass  and  skill,  Mr.  Claren- 
don was  enchanted,  though  he  greatly  feared,  by  swelling  her 
voice  so  young,  that  she  would  ruin  it  for  maturer  years.  Her 
sweet  strains  fascinated  him  ;  and  he  kept  her  singing  and 
trilling  her  notes,  while  he  played  for  her,  delighting  the  little 
songstress,  in  return,  with  an  accompaniment  so  rare  to  her  ear. 

After  leaving  the  piano,  he  insisted  upon  her  staying  longer 
to  see  his  books  and  pictures  in  his  library  ;  and,  while  there, 
told  her  "that,  when  she  went  to  school,  she  would  have  some 
of  the  prettiest  for  her  own." 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  be  shut  up — I  like  to  run  about  where 
I  please,  I  hate  schools — I  went  once  with  Nancy  Bell." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  a  governess  better  ?" 

"  What's  that  ?" 

"  Why,  it  isn't  a  bear,  nor  a  catamount.  It  is  a  nice,  pretty 
lady,  that  will  teach  you,  and  make  a  lady  of  you." 

"  I  can  make  a  lady  of  myself." 

"How?" 

"  If  I  could  get  flounces,  and  rings,  and  feathers,  and  a 
parasol." 

"  Do  you  want  a  parasol  ?  Here's  some  money.  You  can 
buy  one  when  you  go  home." 

"  No — Nancy  Bell  will  laugh,  besides  my  mother  won't  let 
me  take  gentlemen's  money." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  have  a  parasol,  and  to  go  to  school  ; 
and  by-and-by,  perhaps,  I  will  take  you  to  Italy.  Don't  you 
know  where  Italy  is  ?" 


2i  IsoiiA's    Child. 

"  Ob,  yes,  that  is  home.  I  lived  there  once.  Papa  found 
mama  there.     But  can't  I  go  to  Italy  and  not  go  to  school  ?" 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Flora,  that  I  wish  you  to  learn,  and  not 
grow  up  a  wandering  gipsy." 

"  You  do  ?     Who  are  you  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  be  your  guardian,  and  if  you  will  do  as  I  say,  I 
will  be  kind  to  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  won't  like  to  do  what  you  say." 

"  But  you  vmst.^^ 

Flora  looked  up  into  the  deep-set  eyes,  that  bent  a  decisive, 
half  gentle,  half  stern  look  upon  her  face,  and  seemed  to  try  to 
see  what  she  could  read  in  their  expression.  Her  mother's 
were  mild  and  soft,  and  she  rarely  said  she  must,  and  now  she 
wondered  if  any  one  else  had  a  right  to  say  so  to  her. 

Mr.  Clarendon  continued,  "  Which  will  you  do,  go  to  school, 
or  have  a  governess  at  my  house  ?" 

"  I  won't  have  either,  school  or  governess  ;  I  will  stay  home 
with  my  mother,  and  play  on  my  luty." 

Flora's  eyes  now  flashed,  her  temper  was  roused,  and  her 
will  determined.  Mr.  Clarendon  was  naturally  imperious,  and 
feeling  the  ingratitude  and  obstinacy  of  the  child,  and  knowing 
her  mother's  wishes,  resolved  to  make  her  conform  to  his  pro- 
position. 

He  was  as  self-willed  as  Flora,  and  though  he  liked  her,  he 
determined  that  her  caprice  should  not  thwart  his  plans. 

"  I  will  give  you  that  little  white  boy  in  the  corner,  if  you 
will  try  to  learn,"  said  he. 

'*  It  can't  talk  to  me,"  said  Flora  ;  "  it's  dead." 

"  I  will  give  you  anything  you  like  best,  if  you  will  tell  me 
what  it  is." 

"  But  my  mother  loves  me,  and  if  you  take  me  away  from 
her,  all  the  world  and  all  there  is  in  it,  won't  be  as  good  as 
that." 

"  Poor  affectionate  child  !"  thought  Clarendon,  "  she  is  head- 
strong and  self-willed,  but  has  a  love  strong  as  death  where 
she  places  it."  He  thought  how  soon,  as  with  himself,  that 
tender  tie  would  be  broken,  to  which  she  so  tenaciously  clung ; 
and  his  heart  pitied  her,  in  prospect  of  the  desolation  that  must 
come  upon  her.  His  resolution  was  formed.  Flora  Isling- 
ton should  be  his  ward — his  little  adopted  sister — there  was 
something  about  her  that  interested  him,  and  excited  his  wish 
to  nave  her  dependent  upon  him,  and  to  love  him.     But  ho 


Isora'sChild.  25 

must  be  able  to  influence  her,  to  make  her  conform  to  his  plans, 
and  to  educate  her  was  now  his  chief  desire. 

He  insisted  upon  Flora  liavinf>:  a  lunch  with  him,  when  he 
brought  out  of  tlie  sideboard  all  the  delicacies  he  could  find, 
which,  spreading  on  the  table,  he  made  her,  after  drawing  up 
(ler  chair,  partake  of.  This  movement  restored  Flora's  good 
nature,  who  poured  forth  a  volley  of  questions,  and  delighted 
Mr.  Clarendon  with  her  arch  replies  to  his  playful  bantering 
^alk.  But  he  found  that,  amiable  as  she  appeared,  there 
H-as  no  yielding  on  her  part  the  point  of  school  controversy, 
and  he  saw  Httle  hope  of  winning  her  over  to  the  decision  he 
required. 

lie  determined  the  following  day  to  converse  with  her 
mother  upon  ihe  subject,  and  to  acquaint  her  with  his  designs 
regarding  her  daughter,  and  if  she  acquiesced,  to  try  some 
other  argument  with  the  child  to  overcome  her  repugnance  to 
instruction. 

Flora  returned  home  delighted  with  her  visit,  and  related  to 
her  mother  all  that  she  saw,  and  all  the  enjoyment  she  had 
with  Mr.  Clarendon,  and  was  especially  animated  and  eloquent 
regarding  "  the  concert." 

Weeks  passed,  and  still  Mr.  Clarendon  postponed  his  visit 
to  Mrs.  Islington  ;  other  matters  engrossed  him,  and  Flora's 
repugnance  to  go  to  school  dampened  the  plea-eure  he  had  antici- 
pated in  educating  her.  But  the  project  being  again  revived 
in  his  mind,  be  determined  no  longer  to  delay  the  interview, 
and  proceeded  to  the  home  of  Mrs.  Islington,  to  open  the 
subject,  and  to  ascertain  fully  her  opinion  and  judgment  on  the 
matter.  But  a  few  short  weeks  had  wrought  a  fearful  change 
in  the  condition  of  the  frail  being  he  sought,  and  when  he 
arrived  at  her  dwelling,  he  found  her  in  a  dying  state.  Her 
physician  was  with  her,  and  neighbors,  who  had  been  roused 
by  Flora's  shrieks,  were  around  her  bed. 

When  Mr.  Clarendon  approached  the  dying  woman,  she 
recognized  him  with  an  outstretched  hand,  and  pointed  to  her 
little  girl,  who  lay  almost  insensible  across  a  chair  by  her  pil- 
low. He  sat  down  by  the  child,  and  attempted  to  raise  her 
head,  but  it  fell  almost  death-like  over  his  arm. 

•'Flora,"  said  he,  "speak  to  your  poor  mother."  She 
opened  her  eyes,  and  finally  seized  the  languid  hand  that 
attempted  to  reach  hers,  and  covered  it  with  kisses,  while  she 
moaned,  "You  won't  die  ;  they  told  me  you  would,  and  that  I 

2 


26  Isora's    Child. 

might  kiss  you  once  more.  Bat  yoa  are  better  now,  and  won't 
leave  poor  Flora." 

"  You  distress  your  mother,  don't  talk  so,  Flora,"  said  Mr. 
Clarendon. 

But  the  child  sobbed,  and  still  uttered  words  of  frantic 
anguish,  only  soothed  by  the  promise  that  she  should  not  be 
taken  away  if  she  remained  quiet.  But  the  death  scene  was 
near  at  hand,  and  the  child  lifted  up  to  the  cold  lips  of  the 
dying  motlier  for  her  last  embrace,  and  torn  away  amidst 
siirieks  of  uncontrolled  anguisli. 

An  appealing  glance  from  the  still  conscious  mother  brought 
Mr.  Clarendon  to  her  side  ;  her  looks  fell  on  her  distracted 
child,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Who  will  take  care  of  ker  ?" 

"  Will  you  trust  her  with  me  ?"  questioned  the  young  man, 
as  he  bent  over  the  pallid  lips  of  the  departing  parent. 

"To  you,  and  my  God,"  she  murmured. 

''  I  will  keep  the  trust,^''  he  replied,  A  smile  stole  over  her 
face,  and  thus  her  spirit  passed  away. 

Mr.  Clarendon  remained  at  the  house  of  the  deceased  until 
after  the  funeral — for  the  most  time  endeavoring  to  soothe  the 
distress  of  the  bereaved  child,  who  finally  sunk  into  a  stupor 
of  grief,  in  which  she  was  borne  to  the  home  of  Mr.  Clarendon. 

For  a  time  Flora's  situation  wholly  absorbed  her  young 
patron,  and  his  efforts  to  soothe  her  were  untiring.  Jn  the 
day  time  she  rested  in  his  library  on  a  couch,  where  she  lay 
and  cried,  and  at  times  uttered  such  bitter  lamentations,  that 
words  of  kindness  were  unavailing  to  soothe  her  ;  and  at  night, 
when  she  awoke,  and  missed  her  mother,  her  sad  wailings 
would  reach  his  ear,  and  draw  him  to  her  bed-side,  where, 
with  her  hand  in  his,  she  would  finally  fall  asleep.  The  house 
keeper's  rough,  but  kind  ways,  frightened  her ;  and  Mr. 
Clarendon  was  forced  to  forbid  a  servant  from  approaching 
her  until  the  violence  of  her  grief  was  assuaged,  and  she  began 
to  feel  more  at  home. 

He  brought  her  meals  to  her,  himself ;  which  were  generally 
carried  away  untasted — a  little  drink  alone  sustaining  her. 

And  when  she  finally  began  to  wander  about  the  house,  in 
her  little  black  dress,  with  her  large  black  eyes,  and  pale  face, 
looking  seemingly  for  something  lost,  she  saddened  all  wlio 
looked  upon  her. 

She  would  sit  for  hours  with  her  old  lute,  but  v;ithout  toucli- 
ins:  a  chord.     Slie  watered  her  mother's  flowers,  whicli  had  been 


I  S  O  R  A  '  s     C  n  I  L  D  .  27 

brought  to  comfort  her,  but  did  little  else.  Mr.  Clarendon 
could  not  persuade  her  to  ride,  though  he  promised  to  go  with 
her,  and  to  show  her  the  beautiful  green-house  she  had  long 
wished  to  see.  He  finally  became  alarmed  with  her  constant 
gloom,  and  consulted  a  physician,  who  advised  that  she  should 
be  phiced  among  some  young  companions,  and  obliged  to  exert 
herself  with  some  occupation. 

But  Mr.  Clarendon  knew  that  she  became  frantic  if  the 
word  school  was  mentioned  to  her,  and  saw  more  forcibly  than 
the  doctor  the  difficulty  of  accomplishing  her  removal. 

But  as  she  grew  worse  daily,  he  finally  resolved  to  travel 
with  her,  hoping  that  a  short  tour  would  restore  her  health  and 
spirits.  Quiet  and  wretched  as  she  seemed,  still  Mr.  Clarendon 
became  fond  of  his  little  charge,  and  when  he  came  into  the 
house,  looked  eagerly  for  the  little  pale  face  to  greet  him  ;  and 
for  the  clasp  of  the  tiny  fingers  that  came  sliding  softly  into 
his. 

But  when  he  left  her,  she  manifested  no  emotion  ;  only  look- 
ing up  with  a  wistful  gaze,  and  following  him  to  the  door;  when 
she  would  turn  sadly,  and  go  into  the  library,  where  he  usually 
sat,  and  look  at  the  clock — watching  it  mostly  until  he 
returned. 

When  she  heard  his  step,  the  bright  flush  so  peculiar  and 
evanescent,  on  her  cheek,  would  mount  for  an  instant  ;  but 
the  bound  was  lost  to  her  springing  step  ;  and  her  eyes  grew 
sunken  and  larger.  Mr.  Clarendon  sometimes  feared  that  Flora 
was  in  a  decline  ;  but  her  beautifully  formed  chest  and  strong- 
lungs  seemed  to  forbid  this.  That  her  nervous  system  was 
dangerously  shattered,  was  evident,  and  her  health  seriously 
affected.  He  was  much  puzzled  and  troubled  to  know  what 
course  to  adopt  with  her  ;  she  seemed  too  delicate  to  be  left  with 
servants,  and  he,  having  been  free  from  care  or  responsibility, 
coidd  not  nurse  lier  himself,  or  devote  as  much  time  to  her  as 
she  seemed  to  require.  A  stranger  alarmed  and  distressed  her  ; 
and  her  cries  of  anguish,if  left  with  them,  pained  him  so  much, 
that  he  was  forced  to  exclude  them  from  her.  Every  one  grew 
Weary  of  her  grief,  and  the  exhibition  of  her  antipathy  to  all 
around  her,  but  her  new  friend  and  protector  ;  consequently 
she  was  left  alone  until  he  came  home  to  soothe  her.  She 
was  not  troublesome,  but  was  satisfied  to  be  near  him,  though 
he  did  not  speak  to  her,  and  spent  his  time  in  writing  or  read- 
ing.    All  that  belonged  to  him  she  liked,  and  finally  petted, 


-28 


but  his  dog  ;  tbi.!  she  seemed  to  dislike,  and  was  jealous 
of.  She  called  him  ugly  and  disagreeable,  and  would,  if  she 
could  find  him,  shut  him  from  the  library  before  his  master 
returned. 

Flora  knew,  then,  that  his  hand  would  rest  alone  upon  hur 
head  ;  that  he  would  play  with  her  curls,  instead  of  Sappho's  ; 
and  that  on  her  face  alone  would  his  eyes  be  fixed.  Flora  had 
a  jealous,  exacting  spirit,  but  one  devoted  and  sacrificing  to 
those  who  won  her  love.  This,  Mr.  Clarendon  liked  ;  he  was 
fond  of  being  worshiped,  and  being  selfishly  inclined,  looked 
for  idolatry  from  those  to  whom  he  showed  preference  ;  taking 
little  pains  to  merit  it. 

To  Flora  he  had  been  more  disinterested  and  kind  than  he 
had  ever  been  known  to  be  to  another.  Circumstances,  and 
the  child's  promising  beauty  and  talents,  had  drawn  him  into 
assuming  her  guardianship  ;  and  he  now  meant,  as  soon  as  she 
was  well  enough  to  control,  to  place  her  at  some  boarding- 
school  in  the  city,  while  he  went  abroad  to  travel  for  several 
years  ;  thinking  that  when  he  returned,  she  might  be  accom- 
plished and  beautiful  enough  to  amuse  him,  and,  perhaps,  hold 
the  place  in  his  affections  of  an  adopted  sister. 

Of  this.  Flora  knew  nothing.  He  had  yet  not  dared  to 
impart  to  her  his  intentions  ;  and  determining  to  first  travel 
with  her  on  a  southern  tour,  to  benefit  her  health,  he  thought 
she  might  then  be  better  prepared  for  his  resolution.  She 
seemed  now  so  frail  and  had  suffered  so  acutely,  he  dared  not 
agitate  her  by  the  thought  of  separation.  So  preparations  were 
accordingly  made  for  her  journey,  and  he  started  for  Washing- 
ton, with  his  young  and  delicate  charge.  She  at  first  remained 
passive  and  indifferent  to  new  scenes  ;  and  manifested  her 
usual  repugnance  to  strangers,  and  if  she  found  her  guardian 
more  engrossed  with  others  than  herself,  she  had  turns  of 
moodiness  and  irritability,  which  often  vexed  and  annoyed  him. 
But  she  had  so  fascinating  a  way  of  coaxing  him  into  good 
humor  ;  and  so  lovingly  showed  him  that  she  was  wretched 
without  him,  that  the  spoiled  child  was  soon  forgiven,  and  his 
little  Flora  again  his  pet.  A  fortnight's  travel  was  not  with- 
out its  favorable  influence  on  her  health  ;  and  the  }'outhful 
guardian  was  soon  repaid  by  the  rapid  improvement  in  her 
spirits.  Perhaps  she  was  happier,  for  being  rarely  separated 
from  her  devoted  friend. 

Mr.   Clarendon   began   to  take  great  pride  in  her  appear- 


1  S  O  K  A  '  S      C  II  I  L  D  .  29 

ance,  and  admiration  of  her  beauty  gratified  him  much,  though 
to  his  eyes,  she  had  lost  much  of  it,  since  her  mother's  death  ; 
and  he  feared  that  she  would  always  lack  that  round  develop- 
ment of  form,  so  essential  to  his  standard  of  loveliness.  Flora 
was  spirituelle  and  fairy-like,  but  she  had  been,  and  was  still, 
very  pale  ;  and  her  black  eyes,  and  raven  black  hair,  made  her 
look  at  times  wild  and  unearthly — so  much  so,  that  in  the  cars 
or  on  the  steamboat,  strangers  were  attracted  towards  her, 
and  if  they  once  caught  a  smile  on  her  face,  the  charm  she 
exercised  was  potent  and  fascinating. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was,  however,  the  only  one  who  could  excite 
it,  though  he  as  often  made  her  cry,  and  roused  her  rebellious 
feelings,  by  compelling  her  to  follow  his  tastes  rather  than  her 
own.  She  wept  bitterly  at  being  oblia-ed  to  throw  aside  her 
old  dresses,  which  she  said  her  mother  had  made  ;  and  remained 
by  herself  one  whole  day,  because  compelled  to  assume,  instead, 
fashionable  attire. 

Though  usually  indulgent,  Mr.  Clarendon  was  punctilious  in 
such  matters,  and  so  resolute  in  this,  that  she  finally  became 
reconciled  to  an  exquisite  robe  of  black,  in  lieu  of  her  old 
Italian  fabrics — consoled  by  the  thought,  that  her  guardian 
liked  her  appearance  better  thus  arrayed.  They  continued 
their  journey  on  to  New  Orleans,  thence  to  Havana,  and 
returned  to  New  York,  after  an  absence  of  six  weeks — bring- 
ing back  with  them,  renewed  health,  and,  to  Flora,  partially 
restored  spirits. 

Sappho  came  bounding  towards  her,  on  her  arrival,  which, 
contrary  to  her  old  feelings,  pleased  her  ;  and  she  was  induced 
to  pet  and  caress  him.  Her  arms  w^ere  around  his  neck  when 
his  master  entered  the  library  ;  the  dog  instantly  broke  loose 
from  the  little  girl,  and,  with  a  leap,  jumped  upon  the  former. 

Tlie  salutation  was  cordially,  affectionately  returned  ;  Flora, 
meanwhile,  looking  on  with  starting  tears,  and  a  pouting  lip. 

Mr.  Clarendon  observed  her,  and  burst  into  a  loud  laugh, 
while  he  said  :  "  You  little  selfish  witch  !  can't  I  shake  a  dog's 
paw  but  you  must  cry  about  it  ?" 

Poor  Flora  now  burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears,  and 
ran  and  hid  herself  on  the  sofa  pillow,  where  Benson,  the 
housekeeper,  found  her  afterwards  asleep,  with  her  long  eye* 
lashes  still  wet  with  her  tears. 

"That  child  is  the  most  contrary,  spoiled  young  'un  I  ever 
saw,"  said  Benson,  who  vvitnessed  her  jealousy  of  the  dog. 


30  I  S  O  R  A  '  S      C  H  I  L  D  . 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  Why,  she  went  to  sleep  after  her  mad  fit,  jnst  as  though 
dogs  were  to  be  turned  out  doors  for  her  whims.  The  child  is 
looking  better,  though  ;  if  her  mother  wasn't  dead,  I'd  like  to 
slap  her  sometimes." 

"  Poor  thing !  she's  tired,  Benson  ;  cover  her  up  with  my 
cloak." 

"  Hadn't  she  better  be  got  up  to  tea,  and  then  be  put  to 
bed  ?" 

"  No  ;  don't  waken  her.  I'll  carry  her  something  bye-and- 
bye." 

**  Just  the  way,"  growled  the  housekeeper  ;  "  she's  humored 
to  death,  and  will  rule  him,  to  pay  for  it,  some  day." 

Bat  Flora  was  too  little  and  too  delicate,  in  Mr.  Claren- 
don's estimation,  to  combat  with  ;  and,  willful  as  she  was,  while 
she  was  affectionate  and  loving,  he  was  satisfied  with  her.  He 
loved  to  see  her  around,  for  the  first  time,  among  his  birds  and 
books,  and  manifesting  her  old  enjoyment  in  music.  His  ear 
was  gratified  again  by  her  warbling  tones,  and  her  enthusiastic 
delight  in  his  accompaniment  to  her  singing.  But  his  outward 
occupations  increased  upon  him,  and  the  love  of  his  profession 
became  more  devoted,  and  his  aml-ition  greater  to  attain 
eminence  as  an  advocate  and  counsellor.  Yet  this  ambition 
was  much  interfered  with  by  his  projected  tour  ;  and  he 
resolved  soon  to  dispose  of  his  little  charge,  and  leave  home. 

But  months  still  passed  away,  his  purpose  unfulfilled,  while 
little  Flora  grew  more  than  ever  necessary  to  his  happiness, 
and  the  child  more  passionately  fond  of  him.  She  accom- 
panied him  on  many  of  his  rides,  and  shared  his  meals — his 
only  companion.  She  learned  to  pour  his  tea  ;  and  her  fairy- 
like attentions  and  devotion  became  fascinating  and  endearing, 
and  he  never  felt  a  task  more  painful  than  to  tell  Flora  of  their 
coming  separation. 

But  the  school  was  sought  out  ;  and  rich  promise  of  remu- 
neration ofi'ered  for  sympathy  and  kindness  to  his  little  ward, 
after  his  departure. 

Mr.  Clarendon  possessed  great  decision  and  firmness  of 
character,  and  resolution  to  carry  out  plans  once  formed  ;  and, 
feeling  that  it  was  best  for  Flora  that  she  should  be  more 
advantageously  situated,  and  that  it  was  conformable  to  his 
pleasure  to  travel,  he  no  longer  hesitated  to  inform  her  of  his 
plans,  unpleasant  as  it  might  be  to  her  to  receive  the  declaration 


Isoka'sCuild.  31 

Accordinji:ly,  after  breakfast,  six  weeks  after  their  return 
from  their  tour,  he  called  Flora  from  the  green-house,  tc 
which  she  had  run  to  gather  a  rose  for  him,  saying  to  her  that 
he  had  something  to  tell  her,  before  going  to  his  office. 

She  came  running  towards  him,  sparkling  and  affectionate, 
looking  up  in  his  face,  with  her  confiding  smile  ;  and  seemed 
so  happy  once  more,  he  shrunk  for  a  moment  from  the  duty 
devolving  upon  him. 

After  she  had  taken  her  old  seat  by  his  side,  while  his  hand 
rested  upon  her  curls,  he  said,  averting  his  eyes,  ''  Flora,  you 
are  now  in  your  eleventh  year,  and  can  as  yet  only  read  and 
write,  and  that  imperfectly.  Your  education  is  sadly  deficient, 
and  if  you  go  on  so  without  improvement — why,  Flora,  when 
you  grow  uj),  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  you  1" 

Mr.  Clarendon  paused,  and  looked  at  Flora — she  was  very 
serious,  but  manifested  none  of  her  old  violence  of  feeling, 
when  the  subject  was  introduced. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  you  ashamed  of  me  !"  she  said, 
while  her  eyes  flashed  with  wounded  pride. 

"  Well,  then,  my  little  girl,  you  must  go  to  a  boarding- 
school,  and  learn,  so  that  when  I  return  from  Europe,  I  may 
find  you  improved — an  accomplished  young  lady." 

Flora  heard  nothing  but  the  word  Europe,  and  of  his 
going  away. 

Her  little  face  turned  ashy  pale,  as  she  looked  up  with 
intense  earnestness,  to  see  if  it  was  possible  he  could  mean  to 
leave,  her. 

"  Will  you  go  away  ?"  said  she,  her  lip  quivering. 

"  Yes,  for  awhile,  Flora,  but  I  will  write  to  you,  and  you 
must  learn  to  write  to  me,  and  make  yourself  as  happy  as  you 
can  with  your  books,  and  the  kind  teachers  I  shall  place  you 
with." 

"Go  away!  hv,  far  away!  without  me,  and  leave  nif 
alone."  The  distracted  child  now  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of 
tears,  sobl)ing  at  intervals,  as  if  her  heart  would  burst  with 
sorrow.  Then  suddenly  rising,  she  threw  her  little  arms  about 
her  guardian's  neck,  and  frantically  screamed  : 

"  Take  me  with  you  !  ok  !  take  me  with  you  /" 

"  No,  Flora  ;  I  cannot  take  you  with  me  ;  and  you  must  be 
reasonable  and  good,  and  not  distress  me  with  your  tears  oi 
remonstrances.-' 

"  But  I  want  to  go  with  you,  and  I  hate  to  go  to  school." 


32  I  S  O  R  A  '  S      C  H  1  L  D  . 

"  I  know  that,  bat  you  must  conform  to  my  wislies,  I  sliall 
not  think  you  love  me  unless  you  do  so  cheerfully.  I  shall 
feel  sorry  to  leave  you,  but  you  must  be  educated,  or  I  must 
give  you  up,  for  ever,  Flora." 

**  For  ei^er  !  Oh  !  I  will  go — where  to  ?  I  don't  care  where, 
after  you  are  gone." 

Flora's  head  still  lay  on  the  shoulder  of  her  guardian,  while 
he  could  feel  her  heart  beating  fearfully  next  his  own.  He  let 
her  lie  there,  and  sob,  trusting  that  when  the  first  shock  was 
over,  she  would  become  calm  and  reasonable.  He  did  noD 
caress  her,  or  speak  to  her  ;  tenderness,  he  knew,  would  make 
her  more  passionate,  but  as  slie  grew  calm,  he  put  her  gently 
from  him,  and  asked  her,  "  If  she  had  resolved  to  be  acquies- 
cent to  his  wishes,  and  give  him  no  more  pain  by  her  opposi- 
tion." 

'*  Then,  you  won't  leave  me  for  ever  ?"  Flora  said,  with 
difficulty. 

The  appeal  touched  Louis  Clarendon  forcibly.  He  could 
scarcely  restrain  his  tears  at  her  distress,  yet  he  would  not 
have  her  witness  any  emotion. 

"No,"  said  he,  cahiily  ;  "  I  will  come  back  to  you  in  a  few 
years,  and  then  I  hope  to  find  you  grown  and  improved.  Per- 
haps, some  day,  1  shall  bring  a  wife  home,  to  be  a  sister  to 
you,  and  then  we  will  all  live  together." 

"  And  then  I  cannot  pour  your  tea  any  longer,  or  put 
cologne  on  your  head,  or  brush  your  hair,  or  bring  you  flowers 
— she  will  want  to  do  this.  I  shan't  like  her,  I  know.  Will 
you  take  Sappho  with  you  ?" 

"  No  !  I  will  leave  him  with  you  ?  You  will  love  him  for 
my  sake,  won't  you  ?  You  cannot  take  him  to  school,  but  you 
can  come  to  see  him  and  Benson." 

"  Benson  don't  like  me,  nor  Jessie  much.  I  am  glad  that 
Sappho  won't  go.     Oh  !  oh  !  I  shall  die,  I  know  I  shall,  and 

everybody  will  be  glad.     No  father,  no  mother,  no "     The 

little  girl  now  threw  herself  frantically  on  an  ottoman,  and 
cried  for  a  full  hour.  Her  strength  was  finally  exhausted,  and 
she  lay  white  and  motionless,  her  tearful  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 

Thus  her  guardian  left  her,  with  Sappho  at  her  feet. 

When  he  came  back  to  dinner,  Flora  was  calm,  and  her 
expression  changed.  She  said  little,  but  Mr.  Clarendon  saw 
that  she  had  resigned  herself  to  his  wishes. 

He  therefore  instantly  set  about  preparations  for  his  own 


I  S  O  II  A  '  S      C  H  I  L  D  .  33 

departure,  and  for  her  wardrobe  at  school.  Dh'ections  were 
soon  given  for  an  outfit  suitable  for  her  ;  and  no  expense  was 
spared  to  make  it  rich  and  comfortable.  In  this,  the  child 
manifested  no  interest,  but  went  about  as  she  did  after  her 
mother's  funeral. 

Mr.  Clarendon  bade  the  servants  not  regard  her  grief,  but 
to  talk  with  her  cheerfully  as  usual. 

And  so  the  days  of  preparation  went  by.  Flora  seemed 
changed,  as  if  years  of  trial  had  passed.  She  no  longer  sought 
her  guardian  on  his  return,  and  only  passively  answered  his 
questions.  He  became  piqued  with  her  indifference  ;  and  cha- 
grined with  her  cold,  reserved  manner — but  he  said  nothing  ; 
he  dared  not  risk  another  outburst  of  feeling,  and  so  the  hour 
of  departure — of  separation  came. 

He  carried  her  with  him  to  the  school,  having  first  informed 
her  teacher  of  her  afflictions  and  her  desolate  situation,  and 
then  wished  to  be  left  alone  with  her  before  he  bade  her  adieu. 

She  bore  her  introduction  better  than  he  expected,  to  those 
who  kindly  greeted  her,  and  assured  her  she  would  soon  be 
happy  ;  but  her  bearing  was  haughty  and  reserved. 

The  door  finally  closed  upon  the  strangers;  and  the  guardian 
and  Flora  were  in  one  tearful  embrace.  Clarendon  held  the 
little  suffering  one  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her  tenderly — he 
had  rarely  thus  caressed  her.  It  opened  the  flood-gates  anew; 
and  she  wept  like  one  bereft  of  hope. 

"  Kow,  shall   I  take  you  to  Madame  S ,  or  leave  you 

here,  Flora  ?"  said  Clarendon,  huskily. 

'*  Here — here — not  with  them." 

"  And  will  you  be  a  good  girl  ?" 

"  No  one  loves  me — all  leave  me.  I  don't  care  to  be  good," 
said  she,  sobbing. 

"  You  will  not  feel  so,  bye-and-bye.  There — look  up — kiss 
me,  dear  one  !      Good-hye .'" 

Mr.  Clarendon  extricated  himself  from  the  little  arms,  that 
clung  to  him  almost  convulsively  ;  and  after  placing  her  on  a 
.sofa,  went  hastily  from  her,  and  rapidly  away. 


64  Isora'sChild 


CHAPTER   III. 

And  the  wild  sparkle  of  her  eye  seemed  caught 
From  high,  and  heightened  with  electric  thought. 

BrnoN. 

POOR  Flora  was  not  left  long  alone  to  cry;  gentle  tones 
came  soon  to  soothe  her,  and  soft  hands  were  about  her 
aching  brow,  parting  her  curling  locks,  while  sweet,  low  voices 
bade  her  weep  no  more.  Blue  eyes,  with  their  tender,  loving 
light,  beamed  upon  her  ;  and  dark  soul-lit  orbs,  flashing  feeling, 
looked  into  the  heart  of  the  little  foreign  girl,  and  filled  with 
sympathy;  for  all  knew  that  she  was  an  orphan,  and  that  her 
only  friend,  her  young  guardian,  had  left  her,  to  go  abroad  for 
years.  And  though  prudence  forbade  the  sympathizing  tear 
to  fall,  in  many  a  pent-up  bosom  the  little  girl  was  pitied. 

But  when  the  disconsolate  child  refused  to  be  comforted,  and 
begged  to  be  left  alone,  she  did  not  plead  in  vain  ;  but  was 
allowed  to  go  to  her  little  snowy  bed,  and  to  cover  up  her 
throbbing  temples,  as  if  with  light  she  could  shut  out  memory 
and  anguish.  But  no  darkness  or  seclusion  could  deafen  the 
tones  of  the  absent — ringing,  still  ringing,  they  came  on  her 
ear,  till,  like  the  knell  of  a  funeral  dirge,  sounded  that  long 
farewell;  and  dearly  treasured  was  that  precious  kiss,  so  rarely 
bestowed,  in  the  memory  of  the  desolate  child. 

But  we  will  no  longer  dwell  on  Flora's  early  sorrows,  for 
days  of  light,  and  pensive  joy,  came  at  length  to  her  darkened 
spirit.  Young  hearts  disclosed  to  her  their  loving  depths, 
welling  up  with  gushing  fondness,  for  the  little  orphan  ;  and 
hours  of  summer  brightness  brought  warmth  and  fragrance  to 
the  crushed  and  tender  plant  ;  while  guardian  angels  seemed 
to  whisper  peace  and  hope  to  the  heart  of  the  little  Mimosa. 

And  though  a  dim,  pale  vision,  with  gentle  step  and  sweet 
tones,  came  ou  her  memory  iu  many  a  sunlit  and  starry  hour; 
and  again  and  again,  in  fancy,  she  was  clasped  to  her  mother's 
JDOSom  ;  and,  witji  a  fascinated  spell,  she  lingered  on  the  recol- 


I  S  O  R  A  '  S      C  H  I  L  D  .  35 

lection  of  him  who  had  soothed  her  in  her  desolation  ;  yet  time 
brought  a  calm  over  her  turbulent  spirit,  and  ambition  awoke 
in  her  breast  a  desire  to  retrieve  her  hours  of  idleness,  and  to 
enter  into  that  mysterious  world  of  knowledge,  the  threshold 
of  which  she  had  scarcaly  passed.  When  she  saw  around  her 
the  beautiful  and  gifted,  sparkling  with  intelligence,  derived 
from  a  storehouse  of  rich  attainments,  she  resolved  to  garner 
for  herself  the  same  rich  treasures — and  that  he,  who  had 
raised  her  from  poverty  and  ignorance,  should  not  return  and 
*'be  ashamed  "of  the  child  of  his  adoption. 

Letters  soon  came  to  Flora  from  her  guardian — such  sweet 
and  beautiful  ones,  too  ! — oh  1  what  a  hoarded  treasure  they 
were  !  How  often  she  stole  away  to  read  them,  that  she 
might  kiss  them  alone  by  herself.  Curious  and  pretty 
things  too,  came  to  Flora  from  abroad;  and,  finally,  her  guar- 
dian's miniature;  and  all  he  asked  in  return,  was  for  her  to 
write  him,  and  to  send  him  one  of  her  silken  curls,  as  a  proof 
of  her  love. 

Now,  how  badly  she  felt  that  she  could  not  better  fulfill  the 
task  ;  how  greatly  she  coveted  the  cultivated  hand,  and  pen  of 
the  accomplished  writer — thus  was  Flora  stimulated  to  improve 
— and  she  rapidly  succeeded  in  her  efforts — her  bright  intellect 
daily  expanding  under  the  fostering  iniuence  of  her  teachers  ; 
while  her  spirit  softened  under  affliction,  and  her  love  grew 
deeper,  and  more  intense,  for  all  that  inspired  the  warmth  of 
her  nature. 

She  was  a  child  that  formed  strong  friendships  among  her 
playmates,  if  her  high-spirited  demeanor  often  caused  her 
trouble  and  enmity.  She  abhorred  meanness,  and  despised 
deceit  ;  and  though  she  often  incurred  censure  by  her  indiscre- 
tion and  willfulness,  her  freedom  from  duplicity  gained  her  the 
love  of  both  teachers  and  scholars.  For  a  year,  her  guardian 
wrote  her  frequently,  and  tenderly — when  his  letters  became 
fewer  and  colder,  though  ever  kind  and  considerate.  Her  purse 
was  kept  amply  supplied,  and  no  girl  in  the  school  was  more 
elegantly  dressed  than  the  ward  of  Mr.  Clarendon.  But  the 
marked  change  in  the  style  and  length  of  his  epistles,  at  first 
caused  her  uneasiness  ;  but  then  she  thought  her  guardian  had 
so  much  to  occu])y  him,  and  the  alteration  was  so  gradual,  that 
her  solicitude  finally  wore  away.  At  the  end  of  two  years,  she 
heard  more  seldom  ;  and  as  she  reached  the  age  of  fourteen,  her 
once  beloved  guardian  was  like  a. dream  on  her  fancy — a  som(> 


J 


36  I  S  O  R  A  '  S      C  II  I  L  D . 

thing  to  bewilder,  to  excite  her  memory,  and  pass  away — as  a 
pleasant  vision  of  the  departed  comes — not  with  the  same  sorrow, 
but  akin  to  it.  But  Flora  w^as  happily  absorbed  in  her  studies, 
and  derived  intense  pleasure  from  her  pursuits  :  and  music,  as 
it  ever  had  been"  continued  w'ith  her  an  absorbing  passion. 
She  had  the  instruction  of  the  most  able  masters  ;  and  became 
an  accomplished  proficient  in  the  science,  giving  promise  of  a 
vocalist  of  the  first  order.  In  every  musical  circle,  to  which 
she  was  introduced,  no  young  performer  could  draw  about  them 
so  admiring  a  crowd  as  Flora  Islington.  She  had  changed 
much  personally  in  the  space  of  four  years.  Her  form  had 
rounded  to  maturity  ;  and  though  still  light  and  elastic,  was 
rich  in  fullness  and  womanly  perfection. 

The  thin  cheeks  of  the  child  had  become  plump,  and  of  a 
delicate  oval  form,  and  her  lips  of  a  brighter  cherry-red.  The 
tint  of  her  skin  was  of  that  rare,  but  beautiful  shade,  that  the 
clear  olive  of  the  European  south  assumes,  when  brightened 
by  an  American  sun.  To  no  other  complexion,  is  such  a  color 
imparted — and  no  skin  wears  so  soft,  bewitching  a  down. 

But  of  the  change  in  Flora,  Mr.  Clarendon  knew  nothing. 
He  felt  satisfied  with  her  letters,  the  elegance  of  their  appear- 
ance, and  with  the  improvement  she  evinced  in  her  composi- 
tion. This  he  attributed  much  to  her  teachers.  He  could  not 
believe  in  so  rapid  a  change;  the  reports  of  her  insti'a;'tors, 
and  the  account  of  her  happiness  gratified  him,  and  removed 
the  solicitude  he  felt,  when  he  left  her  in  her  grief  and  loneli- 
ness. But  he  had  since  travelled  over  the  wide  world  ;  and  in 
the  most  distinguished  society  of  foreign  nations — in  the  circles 
of  the  gay — the  courtly  and  brilliant  ;  the  little  pale  image 
of  suffering  which  he  had  left  behind,  was  faint  in  his  recollec- 
tion. And  w^hen  "little  Flora"  came  across  his  memory,  for 
there  were  times  when  he  remembered  the  loving  child,  the 
vision  was  ever  spirit-like  and  pensive. 

A  change,  too,  had  taken  place  with  the  3^outhful  Louis  Cla- 
rendon. Travel  had  refined,  and  cultivated  his  always  high- 
bred manner,  and  given  that  ease  to  his  deportment,  that 
acquaintance  with  the  w'orld,  and  the  highest  order  of  society, 
can  alone  impart. 

His  tour  had  been  taken  under  peculiar,  and  advantageous 
circumstances. 

The  scholar,  the  poet,  and  the  man  of  the  world,  had  been 
his  companions.     The  lore  of  the  former  had  lent  the  rich  fund 


Isora's    Child.  37 

of  historic  fact  to  the  charra  of  new  scenes,  while  the  imagina- 
tion which  soared  on  Fancy's  wing,  added  poetry  to  sublimity. 

The  Past  with  its  golden  hoard,  its  romantic  legends,  and 
its  antique  stores,  like  "  apples  of  gold,  in  pictures  of  silver," 
was  added  to  the  glorious,  fruitful  Present. 

Pour  years  of  travel  had  polished  and  refined  the  outward 
being,  adding  to  his  stock  of  informatiou  a  richer  fund,  and  a 
fertile  resource  for  future  years.  But  Louis  Clarendon 
returned  with  a  character  unimproved.  In  the  gay  saloons  of 
Paris  he  had  imbibed  no  high-toned  views  of  morality,  and 
among  the  seductive  and  beautiful  with  whom  he  had  flirted, 
and  whiled  away  his  leisure  hours,  his  tastes  had  become  no 
more  elevated,  or  his  heart  purer,  for  the  simple  refinements 
which  had  constituted  the  charm  of  his  childhood's  home.  His 
taste  had  become  extravagant  and  voluptuous,  and  during  his 
List  year  abroad  the  pleasures  and  allurements  of  high  life  had 
drawn  him,  with  whirlpool-rapidity,  into  scenes  from  which 
great  strength  of  resolution  was  required  to  extricate  himself. 

In  these  scenes  of  foreign  dissipation,  he  had  nearly  forgot- 
ten little  Flora,  and  almost  his  native  land,  but  he  resolved  to 
remain  no  longer  abroad,  and  to  seek  in  more  quiet  life  at 
home  that  rest  which  his  health  required,  as  a  restorative  for 
his  abandonment  to  pleasure.  A  heavy  disappointment  which 
he  had  experienced  from  the  henrtlessness  of  an  accomplished 
coquette,  who  had  captivated  and  enthralled  him,  but  to  aban- 
don him  for  a  newer  field  of  conquest,  disgusted  him  with  the 
sex  with  whom  he  had  been  a  star  and  a  magnet. 

After  five  years'  absence  Mr.  Clarendon  sailed  for  America. 

He  had  grown  stout  while  abroad,  and  his  figure,  always 
commanding  and  elegant,  was  now  unmistakably  clistingnished. 

Flora  had  not  been  apprised  of  her  guardian's  expected 
return,  and  not  having  for  some  months  heard  from  him,  made 
herself  contented  in  the  home  in  which  he  had  placed  her, 
rarely  leaving  it,  excepting  to  visit  old  Benson  and  Sappho. 

The  girls  had  had  a  May-day  party,  when  Flora  had  been 
crowned  queen  of  the  festival,  and  had  never  looked  more 
exquisitely  lovely  than  in  her  fanciful  robes  and  floral  wreath 
with  which  she  had  been  gaily  adorned  by  a  pretty  maid  of 
konor,  chosen  for  the  occasion  and  office. 

The  day  and  evening  had  been  passed  with  great  merriment 
by  the  band  of  happy  girls,  whose  brilliant  eyes  and  flushed 
cheeks  betrayed  their  enjoyment,   when  a  loud   ringing    was 


38  Isoea's    Child, 

heard  at  tlie  door  of  the  establishment,  and  subsequently  a 
messenger  came  to  Madame  S.  with  a  card,  on  which  was  pen- 
cilled, "  Mr.  Clarendon,  for  Miss  Islington." 

Flora  was  instantly  informed  of  the  arrival  of  her  guardian, 
and  of  the  necessity  of  her  presenting  herself  immediately  to 
him  in  the  parlor,  where  he  awaited  her. 

Mr.  Clarendon  had  looked  up  Flora  soon  after  his  arrival 
home,  with  some  feeling  of  reproach  since  his  recent  neglect  ; 
and  feeling  curious  to  see  her  after  his  long  absence,  he 
hastened  promptly  to  the  school  where  he  left  her,  with  revived 
interest  in  the  little  pale  afflicted  one  he  had  parted  with  in  so 
much  sorrow.  He  trusted  that  her  tears  had  since  dried,  and 
that  she  had  grown  and  improved. 

But  as  he  sat  in  the  same  room  from  which  he  had  rapidly 
fled  five  years  since,  he  could  think  of  nothing  bat  the  sobbing 
distracted  child  that  he  had  torn  from  his  arms.  His  eyes 
now  rested  impatiently  upon  the  door,  while  he  longed  for  the 
reappearance  of  the  pale  spirit  thing  that  he  had  held  in  his 
embrace,  that  he  might  again  kiss  her  quivering  lips,  and  take 
her  soothingly  to  his  bosom. 

But  Flora  was  in  a  merry  dance  when  the  messenger  came 
to  her,  her  small  feet  slippered  in  white  satin,  her  form  robed 
in  a  dress  of  snowy  muslin,  her  neck  and  arms  shaded  with 
lace,  while  on  her  beautiful  clear  brow,  lay  among  her  curls  of 
silken  jet,  the  crown  of  roses.  She  was  radiant  and  beautiful 
as  was  ever  a  girl  of  fifteen,  budding  into  womanhood. 

Flora's  recollection  of  her  guardian  was  vague  and 
dreamy  ;  he  was  still  something  in  her  mind  to  venerate  and 
love,  and  she  had  no  fear  of  meeting  him,  but  was  wild  with 
icy  at  the  news  of  his  return.  So,  like  a  home-bound  bird, 
she  winged  her  steps  through  the  long  halls,  and  up  a  flight  of 
stairs,  to  the  Uttle  private  saloon  where  he  awaited  her. 

She  met  him  alone  at  ten  in  the  evening.  He  heard  the 
soft  fluttering  of  something  approaching,  but  as  the  door 
opened,  and  the  graceful  girl  approached  him,  he  started  back 
bewildered  and  charmed. 

"  This  is  not  Flora,"  memory  whispered,  but  the  eyes  of  the 
ward  and  her  guardian  met.  The  recognition  was  mutual — 
his  hand  clasped  hers — his  arm  was  about  her  waist,  and  soft, 
affectionate  words  met  her  ear. 

"  My  dear  girl  !  how  you  are  changed  !"  was  all  she  heard. 
She  trembled  with  delight — the  intoxication  was  magnetic — he 


1  S  O  R  A  '  S      C  H  I  L  D  .  31) 

pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  in  the  fervent  kiss  that  met  hei 
beautiful  lips,  ne,Q;lect,  forgetfuhiess  were  forgiven.  She  was 
again  his  loving  Flora — but  now  so  superbly  lovely  ! 

Her  fanciful  appearance  was  explained,  in  her  own  engaging, 
deep-toned  foreign  accents,  which  seemed  to  him  as  full  of 
melody  as  her  old  songs.  They  fascinated  him  as  with  a  spell. 
He  listened,  like  one  charmed,  to  her  playful  narration  of  their 
evening's  enjoyment.  And  when  she  told  him,  that  she  had 
left  the  dance  for  him,  and  that  the  gay.  party  had  lost  their 
"  fairy  queen,"  he  wanted  to  kiss  her  again,  and  tell  her  that 
he  could  not  spare  her  to  return.  But  the  shrinking  modesty 
of  the  sensitive  girl,  who  now  instinctively  felt  that  she  was  no 
longer  a  child  to  receive  his  caresses,  embarrassed  the  accom- 
plished man  of  the  world,  and  her  delicacy  was  respected, 
while  he  half  regretted  that  he  had  lost  his  little  familiar,  con- 
fiding Flora.  But  he  promised  to  come  often  to  see  her,  and 
if  she  could  obtain  permission,  to  take  her  toi'ide  with  him, 
and  to  his  home  once  more. 

Tears  of  joy  filled  Flora's  eyes  at  the  promised  pleasure  ; 
and  though  she  could  not,  as  of  old,  meet  the  fervent  gaze 
fixed  upon  them,  she  was  happy  at  the  prospect  of  being  again 
iu  the  enjoyment  of  her  guardian's  society. 

An  hour  w^hiled  away  delightfully  to  Mr.  Clarendon  with 
his  bewitching  young  ward  ;  but  the  entrance  of  Madame, 
who  delicately  hinted,  "  that  her  pupil  must  be  much 
fatigued,"  showed  him  that  he  was  an  intruder  ;  and  that  he 
must  not  infringe  upon  her  rules,  in  encroaching  upon  the 
society  of  his  beautiful  Flora — and  so,  withont  even  a  parting 
kiss,  she  bade  him  adieu,  he  thought  as  stiffly  as  if  she  was 
not  his  property,  instead  of  the  dutiful  pupil  of  the  dignified 
Madame  S. 


40  I  S  O  li  A  '  S      C  1 1  I  L  D 


CHAPTER   lY. 

It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year 
Has  fled,  like  some  wild  melody. 

Rogers. 

THE  followino:  day,  a  beautiful  little  Geneva  watch,  with 
chatelaine  and  chains,  came  directed  to  Flora,  with  an 
affectionate  note  from  her  guardian,  saying,  that  in  his  joy  at 
meeting  her,  he  had  forgotten  to  give  her  the  present  which  he 
had  brought  her. 

The  delighted  Flora  received  her  gift  among  a  crowd  of  girls, 
and  a  shower  of  congratulatory  kisses  on  her  guardian's 
return,  and  for  all  the  happiness  and  beautiful  presents  he  had 
brought  her.  But  poor  Flora's  heart  was  too  full  for 
words.  She  looked  at  the  exquisite  token,  and  thought  that 
the  mines  of  Peru  could  not  buy  it  from  her  ;  and  yet,  she 
would  give  a  hundred  watches  to  have  him  come  again — to 
have  him  never  leave  her.  Then  her  frame  thrilled  with  the 
anticipation  of  going  once  more  to  his  beautiful  home,  where 
&he  should  sit  again  in  the  dear  old  library — he  on  the  green 
sofa,  while  she  played  vrith  his  dark  curls,  with  Sappho  at 
their  feet.  The  beautiful  crimson  blushes,  peculiar  to  her  com- 
plexion, mouiited  at  the  thought.  "  Oh  !  no,"  she  inwardly 
murmured,  "this  cannot  be;  he  seems  younger  and  hand- 
somer now,  and  he  is  only  my  guardian,  and  I  have  no  right 
to  love  him  so  much — but  then  she  thought  he  had  been  gone 
so  long,  that  it  was  not  strange  that  she  was  glad  and  happy 
to  see  him — her  old  and  only  friend.  So  the  full  heart  of 
Flora  swelled  almost  to  bursting,  while  she  went  to  sleep, 
with  her  watch  in  both  hands,  hid  in  her  bosom. 

But  not  one  of  the  fair  girls,  with  their  streaming  locks 
unbound,  who  watched  her  as  she  concealed  her  treasure, 
while  they  laid  their  heads  beside  her,  knew  how  dearly  prized 
it  was,  or  how  well  she  loved  the  giver.     Now,  she  realized 


I  S  0  R  a' S      C  H  I  L  D.  41 

liow  noble  lie  had  been  to  bestow  upon  her  the  priceless  gift  of 
an  education,  that  should  make  her  a  companion,  a  sister  for 
liim,  and  she  resolved  that  she  would  spare  no  devotion  to  her 
hooks,  to  fit  her  to  fill  so  sweet  a  place  in  her  guardian's 
heart.  She  realized,  with  a  throb  of  pride,  that  she  could 
now  sing  and  play  to  delight  his  ear  ;  and  that,  by  practice, 
she  could  do  still  better;  and  their  old  •*  concerts"  might 
come  again.  But  then  again  her  face  was  flushed  ;  she  had 
formerly  sat  on  his  knee,  or  close  by  his  side,  while  her  cheek 
had  rested  on  his  hand,  and  he  played,  and  she  sang,  the 
songs  of  her  childhood. 

"No,  no,"  she  murmured;  "I  am  older  now,"  and  she 
half-wished  she  was  a  little  foolish  child  again.  Flora  had  no 
mother  or  sister  to  guide  her  bewildered  judgment,  or  to 
guard  her  heart  in  her  hour  of  greatest  peril,  from  him  who 
had  promised  to  keep  the'  holy  trust  reposed  in  a  parent's 
dying  hour.  Did  her  guardian,  her  guide,  realize  the  respon- 
sibiHty  of  that  sacred  vow  ?  Look  well  to  thy  heart, 
bestower  of  that  holy  pledge — an  angel  spirit  hovers  near.  A 
young,  pure  heart  is  in  thy  keeping.  In  her  spotless  inno- 
cence thou  has  taken  her  to  thy  home — abuse  not  that  child- 
like trust.     It  is  sacred  as  her  vestal  purity  ! 

Flora  is  again  absorbed  in  her  books,  more  diligent  than 
ever.  New  inspiration  seems  to  be  given  to  her  awakening 
genius,  and,  like  diamond  flashes,  gleam  the  bright  scintillations 
in  each  effusion  that  emanates  from  her  brain. 

Her  song  is  even  more  touching  and  eloquent — happiness 
seems  to  have  lent  to  her  voice  a  more  subdued  and  delicious 
tone. 

She  was  at  the  piano  when  IMr.  Clarendon  came  again,  and 
being  much  absorbed  in  a  brilliant  opera,  he  entered  her  pre- 
sence unheeded.  He  did  not  disturb  her  until  she  had 
ceased.  Then  he  came  forward,  and  placing  both  hands  on 
her  young  head,  lifted  her  face  gently  from  her  music — the 
long  eyelashes  were  raised,  with  a  surprised,  timid  look,  from 
her  earnest  eyes — when,  with  impulse  and  joy,  she  clasped  the 
hands  that  fell  on  her  shoulders,  as  he  exclaimed  :  "  My  sweet 
songstress,  I  have  come  for  you  to  ride." 
"  And  may  I  go  ?"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  Flora  dear,  Madame  says  you  may,  with  your  guar- 
dian.    Mine  is  a  precious  privilege,''  he  whispered. 

The    happy    girl    ran    for    her   hat    and    manile,  and  with 


42  I  B  O  R  A '  S      C  H  I  L  D  . 

buoyant  tread,  descended  to  the  parlor,  where  Mr.  Clarendon 
awaited  her. 

He  scanned  her  appearance  with  deep  interest  ;  she  was  now 
arrayed  in  a  dark  green  silk,  with  a  bonnet  of  rose  color, 
looking  he  thought  very  sweet  and  charming. 

He  was  bewildered  with  the  change  which  a  few  years  had 
wrought  in  her,  and  somewhat  embarrassed  regarding  his 
future  plans  with  his  charge.  But  as  she  was  well  situated 
and  happy  at  present,  he  resolved  to  keep  her  awhile  with 
Madame  S. 

The  carriage  whirled  away  with  the  gay  bachelor  and  the 
orphan  Flora,  for  an  uncertain  destination.  Mr.  Clarendon 
was  inditferent  to  their  course,  and  asked  his  young  companion 
her  clioice.  A  serious,  earnest  look  came  over  her  face  at  the 
question,  and  her  lips  slightly  quivered,  as  she  said,  "  May  we 
not  ride  by  my  old  home,  and  then  go  to  Greenw^ood  where  dear 
mamma  was  buried  ?"  iSlr.  Clarendon  was  sorry  Flora  had 
chosen  this  drive,  but  he  would  not  deny  her  the  request.  "  It 
will  afford  you  little  satisfaction.  Flora,"  he  said ;  "  other 
inmates  dwell  there  now,  and  the  house  is  changed  ;  1  will  take 
you  to  Greenwood,  but  would  you  not  prefer  to  go  to  the  sea- 
shore ?  Fort  Hamilton  is  a  pleasant  resort." 

"  I  would  rather  go  to  Greenwood  than  anywhere  else,"  said 
Flora  musingly.     "  Can  we  find  her  grave  ?"  '^ 

"  I  can,  dear.  Go  to  Greenwood,  driver,  but  pass  through 
street,  and  then  down  Broadway." 

Flora  thanked  Mr.  Clarendon  with  a  grateful  smile,  and 
they  drove  pleasantly  on.  He  questioned  her  much  about  her 
progress  at  school,  and  respecting  her  inclination  to  remain ; 
and  w-as  charmed  with  the  intelligence  and  cultivation  she 
displayed,  for  her  years. 

The  novelty  and  freshness  about  her,  amused  and  delighted 
him  ;  he  thought  she  would  make  him  a  dear  little  sister,  and 
he  wished  he  could  have  her  as  an  'inmate  in  his  own  home. 
He  felt  that  her  society  would  add  much  to  its  cheerfulness, 
and  that  her  musical  accomplishments  would  enliven  and  cheer 
his  leisure  hours. 

He  reflected  upon  a  plan  properly  to  effect  this  ;  and 
thoughts  of  procuring  a  governess  for  her  much  occupied  him. 

He  had  sometimes  contemplated  marrying,  but  having  spent 
so  niuch  of  his  recent  life  among  the  ranks  of  the  fashionable 
and  frivolous,   he  dared  not  incur  the   risk  of  seeking  a  wife 


I  s  o  R  a' s    C  ri  I  L  D  .  43 

V»m  the  circles  where  he  had  shone  conspicuously,  as  an  ad- 
•nirer  of  female  charms.  He  had  grown  suspicious  of  the 
sex,  and  at  times,  believed  that  there  was  no  sincerity  in 
woman  kind. 

Returning*  from  abroad  at  the  age  of  seven-and-twenty 
years,  a  thorough  courtier  and  man  of  the  world,  he  had 
ilready  seen  enough  of  life  to  deprive  it  of  that  rich  zest, 
which  the  young  usually  derive  from  its  enjoyments. 

His  ambition  to  become  eminent  in  his  profession  again 
inspired  him  to  application  to  business.  He  had  not  entirely 
neglected  study  while  abroad,  and  returned  prepared  to  com- 
pete with  many  who  looked  upon  him  as  a  novitiate  in  legal 
attainments.  Feeling  that  he  had  wasted  some  of  his  best 
years  in  dissipation,  and  that  nothing  but  an  entire  change  in 
his  pursuits  would  redeem  his  career,  he  accordingly  entered 
with  vigor  and  earnestness,  into  practical  business  ;  and  in 
the  onset  made  so  brilliant  a  debut  as  an  advocate,  that  his 
success  was  pronounced  unquestionable — giving  promise  of 
that  eminence  which  he  craved. 

He  had  again  opened  his  establishment,  procuring  his  old 
servants,  and  preserving  in  the  same  style  his  mother's  elegant 
home.  But  after  all  was  arranged,  he  missed  little  Flora,  and 
he  hardly  knew  how  he  could  substitute  in  her  pl.ice  the  tall 
beautiful  girl,  with  whom  he  could  not  amuse  himself,  with  the 
same  freedom  from  reserve.  She  was  now  by  his  side,  with 
the  same  swimming  black  eyes,  and  brilliant  smile  that  dazzled 
him  as  a  child  ;  and  yet  he  could  not  talk  to  her  of  his  plans, 
as  unreservedly  as  he  wished. 

He  steeled  himself  against  feeling  for  her  any  warmer  pre- 
ference than  for  a  sister,  for  Louis  Clarendon  was  wholly  an 
ambitious  man  ;  and  when  he  married,  none  but  an  elegant, 
thoroughly  accomplished  woman,  he  deemed  would  suit  him  as 
a  wife.  He  now  viewed  the  connection  more  as  affording  him 
a  suitable  mistress  to  his  home,  and  as  affecting  his  position  in 
society,  than  in  any  other  light.  The  lady  whom  he  honored 
as  his  choice,  he  felt  must  be  unexceptionable  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world.  What  had  his  heart  or  fancy  to  do  with  all  this  ? 
and  had  any  one  thought  of  Flora  Islington  in  this  relation 
for  him,  he  would  have  derided  the  idea  of  his  marrying  a  little 
foreign  protege  of  his  own  rearing.  He  was  contented  with 
the  romance  of  the  adoption — the  mystery  of  her  birth — her 
beauty  and  talents — the  title  to  which  no  one  could  lay  claim 


44:  I  S  O  K  A '  S      C  II  I  L  D  . 

It  was  a  lovely  spring'  day  when  they  went  tos^ether  to  visit 
Flora's  old  home,  and  her  mother's  grave.  As  Mr.  Clarendon 
had  said,  she  could  derive  little  satisfaction  from  the  brief  view 
of  the  brick  premises,  from  whence  she  had  been  carried  forth 
by  her  young  guardian  in  so  much  sorrow.  Yet  she  wanted  to 
stop,  and  look  at  the  old  windows,  where  she  had  sat  so  often, 
looking  out  upon  the  passers-by,  and  the  lighted  lamps,  and 
where  she  had,  by  the  side  of  her  invalid  mother,  played  for 
hours  with  old  discarded  luty — the  treasure  of  her  childhood. 
Here,  too,  she  had  rested  on  her  knees,  waiting  for  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon to  take  her  to  the  opera,  while  her  pale  angel-mother 
stood  over  her,  twining  the  rose-buds  for  her  hair — and,  more 
vividly  than  all  this,  she  was  again  in  fancy,  in  that  old  room, 
the  faded  brick-front  of  which  she  could  only  now  see,  by  the 
side  of  her  dying  parent,  clinging  for  the  last  time  to  her  faint- 
beating  heart — where  life  was  fast  ebbing  forth.  But  Mr. 
Clarendon  saw  her  tears  starting  ;  and  he  bade  the  driver 
pass  on,  while  he  said,  *'  Look  to  the  future,  Flora,  and  dry 
your  tears." 

"  I  wish  I  had  saved  something  from  the  old  house,"  said  she. 

*'  Everything  was  preserved  for  you,  my  dear  girl  ;  and 
some  day  you  shall  have  them  all,  in  a  sweet  little  cottage,  if 
you  wish.  Where  shall  it  be  ?"  he  continued  with  a  smile, 
"  in  town,  or  country  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  love  the  country,  though  not  since  I  was  in  Italy 
have  I  seen  much  of  it.  It  would  be  beautiful  to  live  where 
we  could  see  trees,  fields,  and  running  water," 

"  Some  day  we  will  try  to  look  up  a  little  Elysium  for  you. 
What  shall  we  call  it?  Italu  1  Shall  it  be  covered  with  roses 
or  grapes  ?  And  who  shall  be  the  shepherd,  to  take  care  of 
the  lamb  in  her  little  Arcadia  ?" 

'   ''Oh  !  I  haven't  begun   to  build  castles  or  cottages  yet/' 
said  Flora  smiling,  and  blushing. 

"  When  do  girls  begin  1"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  taking  Flora's 
little  hand,  "  They  are  such  dreamy  looking,  poet-inspiring 
things,  that  I  supposed  they  were  always  roving  in  some  fancy 
field,  with  some  dark-eyed  hero," 

Mr.  Clarendon's  rallying  brightened  somewhat  Flora's 
pensive  face,  but  the  old  house  and  its  memories,  yet  lingered 
on  her  mind,  awakening  more  forcibly  her  gratitude  to  him, 
who  had  protected  her  ;  and  as  the  obligation  came  powerfully 
over  her  heart,  the  feeling  was  too  intense  for  utterance. 


Isora's    Child.  45 

Mr.  Clarendon  saw  that  her  smiles  were  very  sweet,  but 
that  they  were  forced,  and  he  thought  if  she  had  her  own  way, 
she  would  rather  lie  down  her  head,  and  cry.  But  this  he 
would  not  let  her  do,  for  he  had  promised  himself  and  her,  a 
gay  and  pleasant  ride,  so,  with  such  tact,  as  experience  and 
knowled,i>-e  of  human  nature  afford,  he  drew  her  thoughts  gra- 
dually from  herself  and  the  past,  by  exciting  her  imagination 
with  pictures,  glowingly  exhibited  of  scenes  and  objects 
abroad,  which  so  fascinated  Flora,  that  with  rapt  and 
devoted  attention,  she  listened,  and  forgot  the  sorrows  of  her 
childhood.  She  finally  laughed  and  chatted  with  her  old  play- 
fulness, and  told  him  many  anecdotes  of  Sappho,  and  her  fond- 
ness for  the  dear  old  dog,  that  she  used  to  hate  so. 

"  How  glad,"  said  she,  "  he  must  have  been  to  have  you 
come  back." 

"And  would  you  cry  now,"  he  replied,  laughing,  "if  I  was 
to  hug  the  old  fellow,  and  love  him  as  well  as  Flora  ?" 

Flora  remembered  her  jealousy  of  Sappho,  with  some 
mortification,  and  was  much  embarrassed  by  her  guardian's 
raillery  ;  for  she  thought  he  must  have  had  so  much  annoyance 
with  her  silly  and  perverse  ways. 

"  I  have  given  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,"  said  she  ;  "  more 
than  I  can  ever  atone  for.  Poor  Sappho  !  I  believe  I  used  to 
shut  him  up." 

"  And  what  for.  Flora  ?" 

"I  scarcely  know,"  said  she,  confusedly;  "but  I  think  he 
always  seemed  to  me  to  take  great  airs  upon  himself,  as  prime 
favorite." 

"And  yon  wanted  to  be  the  little  queen  of  the  house,  and 
wanted  no  dog-rivals  in  the  devotion  you  received." 

"  How  could  you  bring  me  my  tea,  after  I  had  behaved  so 
badly  ?  I  remember  taking  it  as  condescendingly  as  if  I  were 
the  injured  individual." 

"  You  were  a  little  troublesome  comfort.  Flora  ;  but  I  am 
afraid  you  will  give  me  more  trouble  than  you  ever  have  done." 

"  How  could  I  ?"  said  Flora,  looking  in  the  admiring  eyes  of 
her  fotid  guardian. 

"  Oh,  very  easily,  my  pet  ;  but  I  shan't  tell  you  now,  for 
you  are  only  a  school-girl,  and  I  mean  to  keep  you  shut  up  for 
a  long  time  yet.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  ray  little  sis  too  early. 
Madame  don't  allow  any  young  beaux  about  her  premises,  does 
she  ?" 


46  IsoEA'S    Child. 

"  Only,  now  and  then,  a  cousin  or  a  brother." 

"  Cousins  and  brothers  to  the  whole  scliool,  too,  I  sup;;o.!e. 
They  are  ugly  and  disagreeable,  of  course  ;  and  you  have  to 
tolerate  them  for  the  relationship  ?" 

"  01],  no  ;  the  girls  say  they  are  handsome  and  agreeable." 

"  And  what  does  my  Sigiiorita  think  ?" 

"Oh,  they  help  to  make  fun  at  our  soirees." 

"  Can't  I 'be  admitted,  just  for  fun  ?" 

"  I  dou't  know,"  said  Flora,  laughing.     "  I  will  ask." 

"  Are  there  any  pretty  girls  there,  old  enough  to  make  love 
to  ?" 

"  How  old  must  they  be  ?"  incpiired  Flora. 

"  Oh,  about  eighteen  or  nineteen  ;  it  is  wicked  before  that— 
don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  anything  about  it — that  subject  isn't  one  of 
our  studies,"  said  she,  archly. 

"  A  very  suitable  reply  to  a  guardian.  I  see  that  you  are 
very  discreet,  and  hope  you  will  be  as  much  so  with  those 
cousins  and  brothers  that  come  just  for  fun.  You  look  warm. 
Flora  ;  what  a  color  you  have  !  you  used  to  be  so  pale.  Some 
of  the  court  beauties  would  like  your  bloom.  Your  skin  has 
grown  white,  I  think — something  of  the  olive  left,  though,  that 
you  borrowed  from  an  Italian  sun.  I  spent  a  winter  under 
your  native  skies,  and  had  many  a  gondola  sail,  by  moonlight, 
with  a  pretty  girl  by  my  side  :  some  of  them  shame  the  Yennses 
of  their  old  masters." 

'•  I  would  like  to  go  there,  some  day,"  said  Flora,  pensively. 

"You  would  never  come  back,  if  you  went.  Would  you 
like  this  ?  I  saw  some  of  your  relatives  there  ;  but  I  didn't 
tell  them  much  about  you.  Shall  I  send  you  back  to  them, 
or  would  you  rather  stay  in  America,  and  be  for  ever  my  own 
little  sister  ?" 

Clarendon  drew  nearer  to  him  the  beautiful  form  of  the 
youthful  Flora  ;  but  the  eyes  he  sought  were  veiled  beneath 
their  long  lashes,  and  her  smile  showed  a  trembling  lip. 

Mr.  Clarendon  did  not  continue  the  subject,  for  he  saw  that 
it  grieved  her.  Tliey  were  now  approaching  Greenwood  Ceme- 
tery. Flora  felt  a  calm,  suljdued  joy,  to  know  that  her  dear 
mother's  remains  had  found  so  sweet  a  resting-place.  She  was 
so  ill  at  the  time  of  her  funeral,  that  she  did  not  go  to  the 
burial. 

The  monuments  of  the  dead  were  silently  passed  by.     They 


Isoka's    Child.  47 

aligbtecl  from  the  carriage,  and  wandered  slowly  over  the 
grounds. 

Flora's  eje  was  fascinated  with  the  exquisite  beauty  of  each 
verdant  enclosure — each  flower-o;ariauded  court,  where  tl)e 
death-king  had  marshalled  his  subjects,  and  covered  them  with 
roses,  that  the  living  might  pass  by  and  not  see  the  skull  and 
the  worm  beneath. 

She  looked  with  her  eye  of  beauty  on  the  sculptured  marble 
urn,  with  its  curling  vines  and  cypress  shades,  and  forgot  the 
closed  eye  of  the  once  gay  sleeper,  over  whose  ashes  she  lightly 
trod  ;  then,  on  the  proud  shaft  that  wealth  had  reared,  shut 
in  with  wrought  iron  and  gorgeous  carvings,  and  saw  no  hoary 
head  beFow.  Beautiful,  too,  on  her  vision,  was  the  fair  block 
of  marble,  where  an  angel  seemed  to  spread  its  wings,  carrying 
the  spirit  child  to  heaven. 

But  the  weeping  mother  was  not  by  to  tell  her  of  the  dar- 
ling she  had  buried  there.  And  this  is  well  :  let  us  see  but 
the  flowers  of  mortality  in  our  cypress-bowers  ;  the  anguish 
that  life  has  for  each  heart  in  store  is  burden  enou^'h  ;  for  few 
there  are  who  have  not  loved  and  lost. 

Mr.  Clarendon  saw,  amidst  all  Flora's  admiration  of  beau- 
tiful slopes,  verdant  trees,  and  fairest  sculpture,  that  her  g-ize 
was  wistful,  and  that  there  was  one  humble  bed  for  which  she 
sought,  where,  she  believed,  no  stone  was  laid,  to  mark  the 
resting-place  of  her  beloved  mother. 

But  he  led  her  on,  trusting  that  her  eye  would  be  so  fascin- 
ated and  charmed,  that  no  pang  would  seize  her  heart  when 
she  reached  the  spot  where  she  lay  buried. 

They  came  to  a  grassy  vale,  where  the  trees  were  loftier,  and 
the  place  more  sequestered.  A  simple  lot,  enclosed  by  iron 
bars,  lay  before  them  ;  the  grass  presented  one  robe  of  velvet 
green  ;  not  a  flower  was  planted  there  ;  but  in  the  centre  rose 
a  simple  block  of  Italian  marble,  and  on  it  was  inscribed — 
"  IsoRA,  wife  of  Robert  Islington.  Died,  A.D.,  18 — .  Aged 
26  years." 

**This  is  a  pretty  enclosure,"  said  Flora. 

"  Shall  we  enter  it.  Flora  ?"  Mr,  Clarendon  drew  the  young 
girl's  arm  firmly  through  his.    "  I  have  the  key." 

Flora  turned  pale.  She  now  knew  that  she  saw  her 
mother's  grave.  Her  eloquent  eyes  were  raised  with  a  grateful 
look  to  her  guardian's,  while  they  filled  with  tears.  "  Yes," 
eaid  she.  scarcelv  audiblv,  while   she  closed   botli   her  hands. 


48  IsoRA^'s    Child. 

confidingly  over  the  arm  that  sustained  her  ;  tremblingly,  with 
whitened  cheek  and  lips,  she  walked  over  the  hallowed  spot. 
Approaching  the  tablet,  Flora  read  the  inscription.  Her  head 
fell  in  her  hands,  while  she  rested  on  the  marble.  Here  she 
sobbed  and  wept.  Mr.  Clarendon  put  his  arm  around  her,  and 
silently  stood  by  her  side.  He  finally  raised  her  from  her 
resting-place,  and  said  :  "  Do  you  like  the  tablet.  Flora  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !''  she  whispered,  "it  is  simple  and  beautiful — like 
dear,  dear  mamma." 

Her  companion  awaited  her  movements.     She  looked  up. 

''Let  us  go,  now,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  putting  his  own 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  She  turned  slowly,  looking  back  but 
once,  but  when  her  guardian  took  the  key  from  the  gate,  and 
she  went  forth  on  his  arm,  motlierless  and  sorrowing,  he 
thought  of  his  vow  to  her  dying  parent,  and  repeated  in  his 
heart — "  I  will  keep  the  trust." 

The  carriage  followed  them,  and  the  wanderers  entered  it. 
Flora  was  pensive  on  her  return,  but  conversed  with  her  usual 
sweetness,  while  her  companion,  from  sympathy,  became  devot- 
ed and  comforting  to  his  young  charge,  and  bade  her  never  to 
allow  a  wish  that  she  had,  to  go  unexpressed  ;  and  to  confide 
in  him  as  in  a  brother,  wliose  greatest  happiness  consisted  in 
gratifying  her. 

"  dh  !"  she  murmured,  "  but  you  are  not  my  brother,  and  1 
sometimes  feel  overwhelmed  with  " — Flora  hesitated. 

"  With  what,  my  dear  girl  V  said  Mr.  Clarendon  gently. 

"  Oh,  ought  1  to  be  so  much  indebted  ?" 

"■  Flora,  now  you  have  grieved  me,"  said  her  guardian.  *'  1 
want  you  to  repose  in  me  as  fully,  as  confidingly,  as  the  flower 
closes  its  petals  beneath  the  wing  of  night.  I  want  you  to 
trust  me  and  love  me.     Can't  you  do  this  ?" 

Poor  Flora  knew  that  this  was  no  difticult  task,  and  the 
hand  in  which  her  own  was  held  firmly,  felt  the  trembling 
acknowledgment.  Thus  was  the  orphan  Flora  led  by  devo- 
tion and  fascination,  such  as  few  could  resist,  to  yield  her 
young,  loving  heart  into  the  keeping  of  one  who  knew  little  of 
the  ardor  of  her  passionate  nature.  That  he  felt  much  tender- 
ness for  his  young  protege,  he  realized  ;  and  that  she  amused, 
and  at  times  bewitched  him,  he  felt  conscious,  with  her  rich  and 
early-matured  charms ;  but  he  had  seen  too  much  of  beauty, 
and  been  too  much  under  the  wiles  of  the  most  accomplished 
of  l«er  sex,  to  surrender  iiis  heart  to  one  he  deemed  a  cliild,  or 


IsoiiA's    Child.  49 

to  believe  that  she  could  ever  exercise  over  him,  more  captivat- 
ing influence.  While  she  silently  listened,  he  talked  to  her  of 
his  hopes  for  the  future,  and  told  her  it  was  the  desire  of  hia 
heart  that  she  should  be  ever  near  him  ;  that  he  had  no  rel- 
ative, and  that  until  he  married,  he  should  need  some  3'oung 
and  sweet  companion,  like  his  own  Flora  ;  and  that  he  was 
sure  he  could  find  some  way  to  make  her  entirely  happv. 
"  What  kind  of  a  wife,"  he  continued,  "  would  you  choose  for 
me.  Flora  ?  You  must  be  consulted,  for  you  must  be  always 
with  ns." 

"  She  ought  to  be  very  lovely,"  said  Flora,  her  eyes 
averted. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I"  said  her  guardian  ;  **  I  mean  that  Mrs. 
Clarendon  shall  look  well,  in  her  carriage,  and  at  the  head  of 
my  table.  She  must  have  an  unexceptionable  address — not 
too  fascinating  but  enough  so  to  save  me  anxiety  in  the 
reception  of  my  guests.  In  short,  she  must  be  comme  il  faut, 
whether  her  eyes  are  black,  blue  or  green.  She  must  have  no 
vulgar  relations,  and  must  be  able  to  trace  her  pedigree  at 
least  to  her  third  grandfather.  Not  that  I  am  so  fond  of 
lordly  descent,  but  pride  sits  well  on  a  married  woman — 
keeps  parvenues  at  a  distance.  Yes,  yes.  Flora,  Mrs.  Clareu- 
dou  must  be  a  queen  of  a  woman.  Don't  you  think  so, 
little  violet  ?" 

"  I  should  think,"  replied  Flora,  "  she  would  be  almost  too 
proud  to  love." 

"Love!  oh  !  I  shall  like  her,  if  she  figures  well,  a  dignified, 
elegant  woman  always  does  this.  How  fatigued  you  look, 
Flora — this  ride  and  visit  have  been  too  much  for  you,  I  will 
come  again,  and  try  to  make  you  happier — I  hate  to  leave  you 
confined  at  school,  and  yet  I  know  it  is  best  at  present.  I 
must  have  a  governess  for  you  at  iiome  ;  and  then  I  can  have 
my  little  ward  with  me  many,  many  evenings,  when  we  won't 
have  even  Sappho  with  us  ;  and  we  will  read  together,  and 
have  our  concerts,  and  you  shall  then  sing  me  to  sleep — I  can 
hardly  wait  for  the  term  to  close — I  have  but  one  objection  to 
my  plan,"  he  continued,  "  1  shall  have  many  gentlemen  at  my 
house,  clubs,  whist-parties,  suppers,  dinners,  &c.,  from  which, 
of  course,  you  must  be  excluded.  Can  you  be  invisible  ?  will 
you  always  stay  with  old  Duenna?  What  is  your  choice, 
Flora,  to  live  with  me,  or  remain  at  school  ?" 

Poor  Flora  was  bewildered  ;   her  guardian  had  pictured  to 

3 


50  Isoea's    Child. 

her  a  paradise,  and  asked  her  to  enter  it.  Flora  thought 
he  could  not  err — he  Tpas  her  idol,  and  her  guide.  She  felt 
that  to  be  with  him,  to  devote  herself  to  hira,  was  all  that  she 
could  ask  of  earth,  but  the  wife  he  talked  of — she  was  ten 
"thousand  Sapphos  !  But  as  yet,  this  imaginary  woman  was 
not  present  ;  and  when  he  uttered  his  expressions  of  endear- 
ment, Flora  believed  that  she  would  never  appear.  But  while 
she  mused,  the  magnificent  vision  in  the  guise  of  a  court  beauty, 
that  her  guardian  had  met  abroad,  was  in  htr  favorite  place  ; 
she  had  her  seat  in  the  dear  old  library,  while,  like  Sappho,  she 
was  turned  out.  The  question  of  her  companion  remained 
unanswered,  while  her  head  drooped  over  some  flowers  she 
held  in  her  hand. 

"What  do  you  say,  Flora,"  questioned  Mr.  Clarendon. 
His  face  drew  nearer  to  hers — his  hand  rested  upon  the  fingers 
that  thrilled  beneath  it.  Her  eyes  fell  momeutarily  upon  his, 
as  she  replied. 

"  Who  else  can  I  go  to  ?  you  are  my  guardian." 

"True — Flora.  I  am  your  guardian;  your  mother  gave 
you  to  me,  for — my  sister.  So  when  the  term  closes,  you  shall 
come  home,  Flora.  I  shall  have  something  then  to  live  for  ;  a 
cheerless  place  is  a  bachelor's  home — but  we  must  have  a 
governess,  Flora — that,  I  must  look  to  immediately." 

So  the  guardian  and  ward  dreamed  happily  of  the  future, 
but  talked  less  than  they  had  done  of  their  plans.  Their 
thoughts  grew  more  absorbing,  the  nearer  they  approached  the 
now  odious  school,  where  Flora  was  yet  for  three  months 
to  be  left. 


CHAPTER    y. 

"Why  did  she  love  him?  curious  fool,  be  still  ;— 
Is  human  love,  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 

Btrok. 

^^TF  you  wish  to  engage  my  services  for  your  ward,"  said 
i  Mrs.  Linden  to  Mr.  Clarendon,  "it  must  necessarily  be 
without  explanation,  on  my  part,  of  the  peculiar  circumstances 
which  compel  me  to  apply  for  the  situation.  I  wnll  devote 
myself  to  her  education,  on  the  terms  you  propose,  for  the  sake 


Isora's    Child.  51 

of  a  secluded  home  ;  but  I  frankly  state  to  jou,  that  I  have 
not  long  taught,  and  that  I  may  be  deficient  in  such  accom- 
plishments as  you  may  require  in  a  governess." 

"  My  ward  has  a  fair  education  already,  for  her  years," 
replied  Mr.  Clarendon,  **  and  1  consider  you  well  calculated  to 
complete  it.  1  wish  a  companion  for  Miss  Islington,  as  well 
as  a  governess  ;  and  therefore  seek  a  lady  whose  maimers  and 
address  please  me.  You  can  have  your  own  apartments,  free 
of  intrusion  ;  aud  the  entire  direction  of  her  education,  and 
the  formation  of  her  character.  Your  misfortunes  are  a  mut- 
ter of  no  curiosity,  or  especial  interest  to  me — no  questions 
shall  be  asked  respecting  them  ;  and  your  wishes  shall  be 
regarded  in  such  matters,  as  I  can  control — presuming  that 
you* will  be  somewhat  indulgent  to  the  whims  of  an  old  lio use- 
keeper.  I  shall  only  require  the  society  of  your  pupil,  at 
evening.  Her  days  will  be  devoted  to  you,  in  your  own  apart- 
ments. 

"  I  should  prefer  her  to  study  at  evening,"  replied  Mrs 
Linden. 

"  I  shall  then  have  most  leisure,"  answered  Mr.  Clarendon, 
,,  and  shall  wish  her  with  me.  Other  arrangements  I  leave 
with  you.     You  will  come,  madam,  immediately,  if  agreeable." 

Mrs,  Linden  bowed  with  dignity,  giving  her  assent,  rather 
in  her  manner  than  in  words,  Mr.  Clarendon  was  somewhat 
puzzled  with  the  lady's  reserve  and  hauteur  ;  but,  on  the  whole, 
was  pleased  with  her  deportment.  He  saw  that  she  was  a 
well-bred  woman,  yet  handsome,  and  who  might  be  attractive, 
under  favorable  circumstances  ;  and  he  had  reason  to  suppose 
that  necessity  had  driven  her  to  seek  a  livelihood. 

Delicacy  forbade  him  to  intrude  into  her  motives  for  the 
application,  satisfied  that  she  would  be  sufficiently  agreeable 
to  please  Flora. 

The  lady  accordingly  took  possession  of  her  rooms  in  a 
retired  wing  of  Mr.  Clarendon's  house,  with  her  young  pupil, 
who  greeted  her  with  the  usual  reserve  she  manifested  towards 
strangers.  The  tirade  of  Benson  against  governesses  in  gene 
ral,  and  of  this  one  in  particular,  was  still  fresh  in  Flora's 
mind  ;  the  housekeeper's  keen  observation  having  already 
detected  that  she  was  of  the  disagreeable  and  meddlesome 
sort. 

The  sad,  almost  haughty  beauty  of  Mrs.  Linden's  counte- 
nance, at  first  awed  Flora,  who  shrunk  coldly  from  her,  and 


52  Isoka'sChild. 

timidly  presented  her  hand,  when  introduced  by  her  guardian 
to  her  new  governess.  Mrs.  Linden's  gi'eeting  was  kind  but 
somewhat  cold  ;  and  little  confidence  was  at  first  awakened 
between  the  two  strangers,  who  were  to  be  the  inmates  of  the 
same  room,  and  companions  for  an  indefinite  period. 

Flora  had  parted  with  her  teachers  and  schoolmates  with 
regret;  though  with  gay  and  buoyant  spirits  she  entered  her 
guardian's  home  ;  and  not  until  the  arrival  of  the  stranger 
governess  was  her  happiness  marred.  Like  a  child,  she  had 
run  about  the  house,  examining,  with  Sappho  in  close  pursuit, 
each  nook  and  corner,  even  clapping  old  Benson's  back  in  her 
delight,  who  tried  to  look  mad,  but  couldn't,  at  her  wild  freaks. 
Her  exuberant  spirits  elated  Mr.  Clarendon,  who  frolicked 
with  her  with  unrestrained  gaiety,  her  romps  usually  ending 
with  a  quiet  tete-d-tele  in  the  library,  where  with  books  and 
music,  they  together  passed  the  evening. 

Flora  too,  had  many  delightful  drives  with  her  guardian, 
and  a  pony  for  her  own  especial  use,  trained  for  the  saddle. 
Her  wild  freedom  for  a  month,  little  prepared  her  for  the 
restraint  of  study  hours  and  a  governess  ;  but  with  the  neces- 
sity the  love  of  study  returned,  and  she  entered  upon  her  new 
duties  with  cheerfulness. 

Mrs.  Linden  was  dressed  in  deep  weeds,  with  a  widow's  cap 
closely  fitted  to  her  face,  just  discovering  the  dark  chest- 
nut hair  beneath  ;  this  was  simply  parted  on  a  high,  open 
brow,  yet  unfurrowed,  although  evidently  clouded  by  grief. 
She  rarely  smiled,  but  when  her  lips  parted  they  disclosed 
teeth  of  regularity  and  beauty.  Her  profile  was  severe  and 
classical,  giving  one  rather  the  impression  of  pride  than 
humility  ;  an  impression  strengthened  by  her  bearing,  and 
dignified  carriage. 

Mrs.  Linden  was,  however,  unobtrusive  and  reserved  in  her 
manners,  and  especially  calculated  to  please  Mr.  Clarendon, 
from  her  secluded  habits  and  aversion  to  observation.  She 
preferred  to  have  a  private  table,  her  pupil  dining  and  takino;  tea 
W'ith  her,  and  appearing  only  at  breakfast  with  her  guardian  ; 
a  meal  which  he  enjoyed  exclusively  with  her,  while  she  poured 
his  coffee,  and  chatted  with  him  in  her  guileless,  fascinating 
manner,  sometimes  to  the  imminent  danger  o^  his  neglecting 
'Dore  important  engagements.  Still,  her  society  could  not  be 
lispensed  with  ;  and  though  he  protested,  she  was  as  likely  to 
ialt  as  to  sweeten  his  cup,  and  was  sure  to  give  him  muffins 


I  S  O  K  A  '  S      C  H  I  I.  D  .  63 

when  he  wanted  toast,  and  to  commit  all  sorts  of  unpardonable 
blunders  in  table  etiquette  ;  3'et  she  was  before  him  in  her  rich 
young  beauty,  and  whether  her  eye  brightly  sparkled,  or 
melted  in  liquid  softness,  or  whether  her  lip  pouted  in  pretty 
willfulness,  or  curled  with  its  own  peculiar  smile — breakfast 
was  no  meal  without  her.  Still  Benson  declared  that  "  the 
breakfast  was  nothing  but  child's  play,  with  so  much  nonsense 
and  foolery — flowers  on  the  table,  and  a  child  rattling  among 
the  cups  and  coffee-pots  ;  and  that  one  would  think  by  the  fuss 
Mr.  Louis  made  over  the  girl,  that  he  hadn't  seen  her  for  a 
month,  instead  of  sitting  with  her  all  the  evening,  till  the 
lady  governess  ordered  her  to  bed — the  best  thing  she  ever 
did,  in  her  line." 

But  Benson's  scoldings,  and  Mrs.  Linden's  reproachful  looks 
when  Flora  lingered  too  long  in  the  library,  or  sat  too  late 
on  the  balcony  at  night,  were  of  little  avail,  while  her  guardian 
approved  of  the  delay,  and  the  decree  that  she  could  not  leave 
the  breakfast-table  until  he  had  left  for  his  office,  was  also  indis- 
putable— so  the  color  in  Flora's  beautiful  cheek  but  grew  the 
brighter  for  an  instant  with  the  chidings  she  received,  to  soften 
into  its  own  mellow  hue,  and  happiness  to  resume  its  seat  with 
the  anticipations  of  renewed  daily  enjoyment. 

Her  smile  became  magical,  also,  to  her  governess,  and 
although  the  latter  never  spared  the  reproof  her  indiscretion 
appeared  to  call  forth,  yet  so  much  love  seemed  mingled 
with  the  restraint  she  would  exercise,  that  Flora  was  rarely 
offended,  and  promised  so  fairly  for  the  future,  that  her  tact 
and  winning  ways  made  her  empress  over  all  about  her. 

Flora's  sixteenth  birthday  had  come,  and  at  its  close,  she 
was  summoned  earlier  than  usual  from  the  school-room,  to 
greet  her  guardian  below  stairs.  She  had  anticipated  some 
beautiful  present  as  an  accustomed  anniversary  gift,  and 
received  permission  from  her  governess  to  go  to  the  library, 
with  a  strict  injunction  to  return  early. 

With  a  smile  and  a  kiss  for  her  governess,  she  bounded  like 
a  fawn  over  the  stair-case,  but  as  she  approached  the  library, 
her  footsteps  were  hushed,  and  her  heart  beat  with  fluttering 
joy  against  the  little  crimson  boddice,  where  her  young  bosom 
swelled  with  tumultuous  emotion.  Was  it  the  coming  gift. — 
the  glittering  cross  or  jewelled  ring  that  was  to  grace  her 
neck  or  dimpled  hand,  that  created  such  a  glow  of  excite* 


54  I 

ment — or  was  it  the  glance  of  an  eye  more  flashing:  than  the 
diamond's  lustre,  that  made  her  radiant  and  blissful  ? 

Flora  asked  not  her  heart  the  question,  and  he,  who 
awaited  her  coming,  thought  as  little  of  it.  But  as  he  heard 
her  step,  his  book  was  thrown  aside,  and  as  she  approached 
his  table,  he  was  ready  with  all,  at  least,  of  a  brother's 
love  to  express  his  affectionate  greeting. 

To  please  her,  he  had  brought  flowers  and  birds  into  his 
study,  and  seats  of  luxury  had  found  their  way  into  a  room 
where  green  baize  and  black  walnut  had  before  been  chiefly 
conspicuous  ;  and  had  he  been  told  that  he  was  turning  the 
old  family  library  into  a  lady's  boudoir,  he  would  himself 
have  doubted  the  assertion.  But  here  he  was  now  accustomed 
to  sit,  by  star  and  moonlight,  with  his  young  loving  Flora, 
while  she  sang  her  wild,  rich  songs  ;  and  how,  he  asked  him- 
self, could  he  make  too  balmy  the  atmosphere  that  his  syren 
breathed  ? 

Here,  evening  after  evening,  in  her  deep,  starry  eyes,  he 
read  the  passionate  emotions  that  poetry,  music,  or  love's 
thrilling  language  excited  ;  while  more  inseparable  became 
the  cords  that  linked  the  young  girl  to  her  fascinating,  courtly 
guardian. 

"  So  you  have  come  early  to-night,"  said  the  latter,  as  he 
took  Flora's  hand,  **  and  what  penance  is  to  be  inflicted  for 
the  pleasure  afforded  me  ?" 

"Oh!  none,"  said  Flora,  smiling,  "only  that  I  must 
return  earlier.  Mrs.  Linden  does  not  like  to  have  me  come 
down  so  much,  nor  stay  so  long.  She  says  that  I  must 
remain  with  her,  and  that  shq  will  read  to  amuse  me  at 
evening." 

"  And  what  does  Lady  Bensou  say  ?" 

"  She  says  '' — Flora  laughed  musically — "  if  she  had  her 
way,  that  I  should  be  put  to  bed  by  eight  o'clock  ;  and  more 
than  this,  she  wants  me  to  wear  a  silk  net  over  my  head,  tied 
with  a  tassel  behind,  to  make  me  look  more  tidy ;  she  says  my 
curls  are  a  great  annoyance  to  her." 

"  So  they  are  to  me,  you  gipsy — always  flying  in  my 
face,  and  covering  up  my  page — like  the  feathers  of  a  bird  of 
paradise — and  you  are,  moreover,  one  of  that  species  yourself— 
don't  you  think  so  ?" 

He  pressed  her  hand  affectionately,  and  drew  her  towards 


T  S  O  R  A '  S      C  H  I  L  D  .  55 

iiim  more  confidingly,  while  the  guardian  continued  his  ques- 
tions 

"  And  Benson  savs,  too,"  replied  Flora  "  that  she  never 
knew  any  good  come  out  of  '  heathen  books,'  such  as  we  read 
together." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  puss,  does  she  call  my  books  heathen  ?  And 
so  with  my  lady  Dorothy  and  the  lady  Abbess,  I  am  to  lose 
my  little  nun  altogether — they  had  better  be  wary,  or  I  will 
scale  the  fortress  and  carry  her  ofT.  Pray  what  do  they  pro- 
pose for  -my  amusement  till  ten  o'clock  ?" 

''They  don't  think  of  that,"  said  Flora,  artlessly.  "See 
how  beautifully  the  sun  is  setting  ;  it  comes  through  that 
stained  window  like  a  thousand  rainbows.  How  I  should  love 
to  see  it  go  dow^n  among  the  hills  and  trees,  and  gild  the 
water,  making  the  ripples  flash  and  sparkle,  as  I  used  to  watch 
it  on  the  Arno,  in  our  old  gondola." 

"You  sliall,  some  time,  my  little  dreamer.  Are  you  noi 
happy  now  ?  Life  seems  all  coukur  cle  rose  to  you  anywhere. 
I  would  give  all  I  am  worth  for  your  wild,  joyous  spirits." 

"  1  am  hapi)y  now,  oh  !  yes,  very  hapjpy — because,  when  I 
am  with  you,  1  never  think  of  the  past  or  of  the  future.  But 
Mrs.  Linden  says  that  I  am  too  thoughtless — that  I  mustn't 
live  for  the  present  alone — that  I  must  have  some  purpose  in 
life,  besides  self-gratification  ;  but  1  do  not  mean  to  be  selfish  ; 
I  would  do  much  for  those  I  love,  but  you  won't  let  me  work  or 
help  you.  All  I  can  do  for  you  is  to  water  your  flowers, 
and  feed  Sappho,  light  your  cigar,  comb  your  hair,  bathe  your 
head  when  it  aches  " 

"  And  put  pepper  instead  of  sugar  into  my  tea,  and  bother 
me  morning,  noon,  and  night,  either  by  coming  or  not  coming 
to  see  me — blinding  ray  eyes  with  your  curly  hair — in  short, 
you  are  perfectly  useless,  and  yet,  like  tlie  summer  breeze  that 
plays  its  pranks  over  garden  and  hill-tops,  and  steals  with  its 
mischievous  breath  among  my  papers,  blowing  them  hither  and 
thither,  so  my  little  Flora  comes  on  her  rosy  wings  to  my 
side,  to  lull  and  charm  my  existence." 

"  But  I  will  not  always  be  such  a  will-of-the-wisp.  I  am 
sixteen  to-day,  older  than  dear  mamma  when  she  was  married." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  this.  Flora,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon  iu  a 
low  tone, 

"  Oh  !  yes,  mamma  said  so." 

Flora  looked  very  pensive  as  she  spoke,  and  her  guardian 


66  Iboea's    Child. 

observed  lier  with  intense  interest — be  pondered  in  his  mind 
the  question  whether  he  would  be  willing  to  resign  her  to 
another's  keeping.  He  grew  jealous  at  the  thought,  and 
determined  that  she  should  live  long  yet  secluded  from  society, 
for  once  seen  by  the  world,  he  knew  that  he  should  lose  her  ; 
and  yet  ambition  was  too  powerful  a  passion  with  him  to 
allow  him  to  think  of  wedding  her — no.  Flora  Islington — the 
daughter  of  a  foreigner,  whom  he  knew  not — one  on  whom 
perhaps,  rested  the  stain  of  illegitimacy,  could  never  be  his 
wife.  Pride  mastered  his  love  for  the  foreign  girl — and  yet 
she  was  dearer  to  him  than  aught  beside,  and  his  vow  to  her 
dying  mother  was  ever  sacred  in  his  recollection. 

As  the  sun  declined,  he  drew  nearer  to  the  open  window, 
which  opened  upon  an  alcove  of  plants  ;  and  drawing  from 
the  table  a  favorite  volume,  told  Flora  to  bring  her  low 
chair  near  him,  while  he  would  read  to  her  an  hour  ;  and 
afterwards,  they  would  have  some  music.  To  the  latter 
this  was  the  height  of  enjoyment ;  and  when  the  long, 
troublesome  hair,  glossy  and  beautiful,  was  parted  upon 
her  smooth  marble  temples,  that  her  guardian  might  watch 
better  the  soft  eyes  that  melted  as  he  read,  she  was  ready 
to  listen  ;  and  he,  to  draw  her  to  his  side,  with  increased 
tenderness,  as  she  wept,  sighed,  or  smiled,  at  the  poet's 
fervent  language. 

In  low,  deep  tones,  ]Mr.  Clarendon  breathed  into  her  ear 
Moore's  harmonious  numbers,  until  the  magical  silver  flow 
carried  her  rapturously  into  regions  of.  fairy  romance,  where, 
on  rosiest  wing  her  spirit  soared,  entranced  alike  with  melody 
and  song.  With  parted  lips,  and  eyes  downcast  with  feeling, 
she  listened,  in  thrilling  happiness  ;  but  as  the  tale  grew  wildly 
sad,  pathos,  fervor,  and  maddening  passion,  from  the  lips  of 
the  dark  Mohammedan  lover,  now  echoed  in  subduing  tones, 
by  the  voice  so  dearly  loved,  at  last  overcame  the  youthful, 
sympathetic  listener,  and  streaming  tears  caused  the  reader 
impetuously  to  dash  aside  his  book,  while  with  her  wet  eyes  hid, 
she  declared,  if  he  would  proceed,  she  would  no  longer  betray 
such  foolii^h  weakness. 

But  Flora  would  beg  in  vain  ;  the  book  was  shut  as  her 
punishment,  and  she  compelled  to  sing  away  her  sadness. 
Once  as  her  voice  swelled  in  its  richest  tones,  while  she  was 
again  entirely  happy  in  the  devotion  of  her  guardian,  her  birth- 
day-gift was  clasped  on  her  bosom.     It  was  a  dove  made  of 


Isora's    Child.  57 

choicest  pearls,  holding  in  its  beak  a  tiny  ring,  richly  set  in 
diamonds. 

The  workmanship  was  exquisite,  and  the  gems  surpassingly 
brilliant.  He  covered  it  with  his  hand,  until  the  song  was 
completed,  when  she  was  allowed  to  see  it.  So,  playfully.  Cla- 
rendon compelled  Flora  to  yield  to  his  whims,  until  evening 
advanced,  and  its  sombre  shadows  darkened  the  room.  Tiien 
lights  were  soon  brought  in  by  Benson,  who  made  herself  busy 
for  a  longer  period  than  was  deemed  necessary,  in  winding  the 
clock,  which  somehow  went  ahead  of  all  city  time  ;  a  fitting 
hour  it  seemed  also  to  her,  to  water  the  flowers  in  the  alcove ; 
and  such  confusion  one  would  suppose  had  never  before  been 
made  in  chairs  and  tables,  as  her  energetic  setting  to  rights 
manifested,  while  she  took  care,  with  strict  maiden  propriety, 
that  none  should  approach  too  near  together — such  proximity 
being  too  sociable  in  her  discretionary  views,  for  even  four- 
legged  black  walnut. 

But  Miss  Dorothy  was  hopeless  in  her  despair  of  subjecting 
her  master,  or  of  moulding  him  to  her  circumspect  views  ;  all 
therefore  she  could  do,  was  to  superintend  matters,  in  her  own 
dignified,  confidential  manner,  for  which  she  never  had  reason 
to  believe  any  gratitude  had  yet  been  evinced.  Neither  did 
she  leave  the  library  without  keen  observation  of  the  pursuits 
of  its  occupants,  even  to  the  books  perused,  and  the  songs 
which  were  sung,  and  lastly,  her  eyes  to-night  settled  upon  the 
ornament  resting  upon  the  bosom  of  Flora,  which  slie  consi- 
dered indecorous  in  the  extreme  for  her  to  wear — indeed  she 
objected  to  bosom  pins  any  way.  She  never  found  any  difB- 
calty  "  in  keeping  ship  shape,"  she  said,  "  with  brass  heads, 
but  now-a-days  girls  in  pantalettes  must  have  pigeons  billing 
on  their  necks,  sarpents  twisted  on  their  arms,  and  chains  hang- 
ing, the  Lord  knows  where."  And  so  Dorothy  sighed  over  the 
degeneracy  of  the  times,  and  determined  to  give  Mrs.  Linden  a 
hint  of  the  library  doings — pigeons  and  all. 

But  ten  o'clock  came,  when  Mrs.  Linden's  gentle,  but  firm 
step  was  heard  at  the-  door  of  the  study,  and  her  low  tap 
answered  by  the  salutation  of  Mr.  Clarendon,  who  always 
invited  her  to  enter,  which  courtesy,  as  usual,  she  declined. 
Her  coming  for  Flora  brought  the  blushing  girl  to  her  side, 
and  together  they  proceeded  to  her  chamber. 

Mrs.  Linden  received  her  young  charge  with  deep  and  ten- 
der interest,  and  anxiously  looked  for  the  hour  that  was  to 


58  Isoka's    Child. 

separate  her  from  her  guardian  and  restore  her  to  her  care 
She  became  daily  more  convinced  of  Flora's  growing  passion 
for  his  society,  and  of  his  devotion  to  her,  and  yet  the  subject 
was  one  she  felt  reluctant  to  approach  with  either  party 
Untold  sorrows  had  made  her  feel  keenly  for  her  pupil,  and  to 
apprehend  for  her  the  blight  of  disa]>pointment.  There  was 
something  in  the  character  of  Mr.  Clarendon  that  made  her 
solicitous  regarding  his  attentions  towards  her  ;  she  believed 
him  not  dishonorable,  but  reckless  of  the  attachment  he 
inspired.  She  endeavored  to  spare  no  pains  in  the  instruction 
she  imparted,  to  cultivate  in  her  heart  a  nice  sense  of  right  and 
wrong,  and  to  impress  upon  her  those  great  moral  and  religious 
truths,  without  which  there  is  no  basis  to  the  female  character. 

She  taught  her  that  there  was  a  higher  and  purer  source  of 
enjoyment  than  the  love  of  earth  or  its  idols  could  inspire,  and 
that  without  the  adornment  of  Christian  graces  the  purest  heart 
was  like  an  empty  casket,  unfit  for  the  temptations  of  the 
world,  and  unripe  for  heaven. 

Time  wore  on,  blissfully  to  the  blind  infatuated  Flora, 
and  pleasantly  to  her  indulgent  guardian.  The  professional 
business  of  Mr.  Clarendon  became  more  engrossing,  and  the 
few  hours  he  passed  with  his  ward  more  than  ever  precious  to 
him.  His  house  was  frequented  as  usual  by  his  bachelor 
friends,  and  though  many  inquiries  were  made  for  the  secreted 
nun,  she  never  appeared  in  public,  excepting  with  himself  or 
governess.  Of  society  she  knew  nothing,  or  of  its  forms  or 
etiquette.  Mr.  Clarendon  preferred  her  as  she  was,  natural 
and  beautiful,  without  artificiality,  He  had  no  schemes  for 
the  future  respectinir  her,  and  the  thought  of  bis  youno;  ward's 
ever  inspiring  an  attachment  among  his  own  sex  was  opposed 
to  every  wish  of  his  heart.  So  his  bachelor  friends  looked  in 
vain  for  the  appearance  of  the  young  beauty  at  his  dinners  or 
feUs ;  and,  although  strongly  pressed  by  his  female  acquain- 
tances for  her  presence  at  their  musical  soirees  and  parties, 
their  invitations  were  ever  firmly  declined.  He  was  much  in 
society  himself,  and  attended  many  brilliant  fe-tivals  after  his 
interviews  with  Flora,  who  often  parted  from  him  with  tear-?!, 
only  consoled  by  the  prospect  of  meeting  him  again  at  break- 
fast. 

Thus  a  year  passed  away,  while  Flora  remained  under 
the  roof  of  her  guardian,  daily  improving  in  person  and  charac- 
ter.   Under  the  instruction  of  Mrs.  Linden  she  gained  strength 


Isora's    Child.  59 

of  priuciple,  and  that  self-reliance  wbicli  fitted  her  for  the  exi- 
gencies of  her  fate.  While  her  education  was  carefully 
attended  to,  and  her  mind  stored  with  useful  information,  she 
spared  no  efforts  to  awaken  her  to  the  danger  of  her  position, 
so  far  as  her  future  happiness  was  concerned.  She  endeavored 
to  impress  upon  her  heart  the  fallacy  of  human  professions,  and 
to  prepare  her  for  the  disappointment  which  she  feared  awaited 
her  in  the  constancy  of  her  guardian's  love. 

One  lovely  evening  Flora  sat  alone  in  her  chamber,  Mr. 
Clarendon  was  absent,  and  had  been  so  for  several  days.  She 
seemed  pensive  and  sad  ;  Mrs.  Linden  endeavored  to  persuade 
her  to  walk  or  ride  with  her,  but  Flora  declined,  and  moodily 
sat  in  the  casement,  where  the  moonlight  streamed  upon  her  in 
its  full  brilliancy. 

Mrs.  Linden  came  towards  her,  gently  drew  her  from  her 
resting-place,  and  placing  her  hand  caressingly  on  her  head, 
asked  her  why  she  was  so  thoughtful. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  my  singular  destiny,"  said  Flora,  witn 
feeling.  "  Of  my  father's  desertion,  of  my  mother's  death,  and 
of  my  orplianed  condition,  and  of  my  present  home  and 
guardianship,  and  what  cause  I  have  to  be  happy — and  yev 
what  a  fearful  thing  it  is  to  depend  upon  one  being  for  all  one'* 
bliss  in  life," 

"My  dear  Flora,"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  "if  you  knew  how  my 
heart  feels  for  you,  how  I  long  to  give  you  a  mother's  counsel, 
with  a  mother's  and  a  sister's  love,  you  would  not  spurn  it.  I 
look  upon  you  as  standing  upon  a  flowery  precipice — I  cannot 
avoid  it — I  dream  of  it  by  night,  and  I  ponder  upon  it  by  day. 
I  would  not  cause  you,  God  knows,  one  pang — don't  sob  so, 
my  darling — you  are  nervous  and  lonely  without  him.  Flora, 
but  ask  your  heart  the  question — how  you  could  live  for  ev.er- 
in  this  world  without  your  guardian  ?" 

**  Oh  !  don't  talk  so,"  said  Flora,  with  her  face  buried;  "  h 
should  die  !  I  should  die  I  Why  should  I  be  separated  tyom, 
him  ?  He  loves  me  as  dearly  as  1  love  him.  He  is  miserable 
when  I  do  not  come  to  meet  him,  and  I  wisb  for  nothing  on 
earth  but  to  be  for  ever  by  his  side.  Oh  I  Mrs.  Linden,,  you, 
try  to  separate  us,  and  you  w-ill  kilL  me  by 'doing  it.  You 
keep  me  from  him,  and  eall  me  away,  to  lie  and  cry,  because  I 
am  so  fettered  and  restrained-.  L  won't  be  so  any  longer. 
No,"  said  she,  passionately  rising,  "I  will  not  be  caged — I 
will  be  free  1" 


60  IsoFwa's    Child. 

"Flora!  Flora!"  said  Mrs.  Linden.  "It  is  true  J  have 
kept  you  much  with  me  of  late,  I  cannot  remain  with  you, 
unless  with  the  exercise  of  such  authority.  I  know  the  respon- 
sibility of  my  situation,  and  before  God  I  pray  to  feel  it,  and 
to  do  my  duty  towards  you.  I  know  that  heaven  has  sent  me 
ht-re  to  guard  a  motherless  child." 

"  And  you  cannot  trust  me  with  my  own  guardian — my  best, 
my  dearest  friend  ?"  said  Florence  vehemently. 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  tenderly  disregarding 
the  passionate  language  and  tears  of  Flora,  ''  will  you  confide 
in  me  wholly  ? — Will  you  tell  me  how  far  I  may  trust  him  ? 
You  say  that  he  loves  you,  that  he  acknowledges  it  daily, 
that  he  is  miserable  without  you.  Flora,  you  are  now  seven- 
teen, you  are  a  woman  in  years  and  character,  a  woman  in 
passionate  feeling,  and  I  trust  one  in  reason  and  principle. 
Has  Mr.  Clarendon  ever  proposed  to  marry  you  ?" 

With  a  burning  cheek,  Flora  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
remained  silent.  Her  bosom  heaved  wildly,  and  her  veins 
swelled  \vith  excited  feeling.  She  soon  rose  from  her  seat,  and 
left  the  room  where  they  sat.  Mrs.  Linden  did  not  follow 
Flora,  but  long  after,  she  went  to  the  door  of  her  chamber, 
and  stole  quietly  to  her  bedside.  She  had  thrown  herself  upon 
her  pillow,  and  still  lay  there,  seemingly  absorbed  in  intense 
thought.  The  traces  of  tears  were  on  her  cheek,  l^ut  she  vvaa 
calm. 

"  Why  hi^ve  you  come  ?"  said  she  reproachfully.  "  I  am 
miserable  enough  alone.  Tell  me  what  I^must  do,  and  if  it  ia 
right,  I  will  try  to  follow  your  advice.  Tell  me,"  said  she 
frantically,  seizing  the  hand  of  her  governess,  "must  I  leave 
him — go  forth  in  this  wide  world  alone,  without  a  friend,  with- 
out a  helper  ?" 

"  You  know  best,  Flora  ;  you  know,  my  dear  girl,  whether 
you  can  lay  your  hand  on  your  heart,  and,  before  God,  say — 
'  His  love  for  me  is  pure  and  honorable  ;  he  has  vowed  to 
make  me  his  honored  wife,  and  cherish  me  until  death.'  With- 
out this  pledge  you  are  no  longer  safe,  and  I  would  bid  you 
flee  while  your  heart  is  pure  and  sinless.  I  have  tried  to  keep 
it  so,  to  keep  the  dove  of  peace  in  your  innocent  bosom,  and, 
oh,  I  cannot  leave  you  until  the  victory  is  complete.  I  would 
advise  you  to  linger  no  longer  in  the  fascinating  presence  of 
one  to  whom  you  owe  so  much — the  debt  of  obligation  but 
increases  your  danger.     I  know  that  you  suffer  much  in  the 


Isoka'sChild.  01 

thoug-lit  of  separation,  but  delay  may  make  your  sorrow  irre- 
mediable. Flora,  I  shall  sooa  be  obliged  to  leave  you — I 
offer  you  a  home  with  me." 

*'  And  never  see  him  again,  my  dear,  dear  guardian  !  No, 
no  ;  I  cannot.  But  I  \\  ill  see  him  first — I  will  tell  him  I  am 
going  away  from  him — that  this  is  no  home  for  Flora — 
that  you  say,  I  cannot  be  good  and  happy,  if  I  love  him  so 
much — I  will  tell  him  that  the  little  girl  he  educated  shall  not 
be  unworthy  of  all  he  has  done  for  her,  and  be  guilty  of  mis- 
placing her  love  on  one  who  values  it  not.  Oh  !  Yes,  Mrs. 
Linden,  pride  will  help  me,  and  the  principles  you  have  taught 
me,  will  enable  me,  finally,  to  do  right." 

**  God  grant  it,  my  dear  girl  ;  but  I  fear  that  you  cannot 
resist  his  persuasion  to  remain.  His  authority  will  appear  to 
you  supreme.  Heaven  guard  and  support  you,  my  darling. 
Good  night  1" 

Mrs.  Linden  did  not  go  to  her  rest.  She  sat  long  in  the 
moonlight,  her  heart  agitated  by  the  situation  of  Flora. 
She  was  painfully  impressed.  She  had  acted  conscientiously  ; 
but  she  knew,  that  she  should  bring  upon  her  own  head  the 
wrath  of  Mr.  Clarendon.  She  knew  that  he  would  hate  her, 
and  execrate  her  name,  for  the  influence  she  exerted  over 
Flora's  mind  ;  she  feared  at  times  that  she  had  done  her 
guardian  injustice — that  he  truly  loved  his  ward,  and  was 
educating  her  for  his  wife.  She  finally  resolved  to  seek 
him  on  his  return,  to  disclose  to  him  candidly  her  course, 
and  to  acquaint  him  with  her  advice  to  Flora.  She  thanked 
God  that  she  had  been  permitted  to  sow  in  the  heart  of  her 
pupil,  seeds  that  had  taken  root,  which  might  bring  forth  the 
fruit  of  righteousness.  On  her  knees  she  prayed  for  guidance 
and  wisdom  to  guard  and  direct  her  pupil,  and  that  she 
might  have  grace  from  Heaven  to  enable  her  to  resist  all  evil 
influences,  and  to  be  kept  pure  in  the  sight  of  God. 

The  following  day  Mr.  Clarendon  returned.  He  had  been 
absent  three  days.  His  coming  was  felt  to  the  most  remote 
corner  of  the  dwelling,  Flora's  tasks  were  sadly  performed 
— she  was  utterly  miserable,  and  her  looks  evinced  it. 

Word  was  sent  Mr.  Clarendon  that  she  was  ill,  and  could 
not  come  down  to  see  him,  but  that  she  would  endeavor  to  do 
so  the  following  day.  The  latter  was  much  excited  at  the 
news  ;  and  insisted  upon  seeing  her  in  her  own  apartment— 
this  proposal  Mrs.  Linden  refused,  much  to  his  chagrin  ;  and 


^2  I  S  O  R  a'  8      C  H  I  L  D  . 

with  keen  disappointment,  he  seated  himself  alone  that  evening 
in  his  library. 

He  heard  a  step,  and  listened.  It  was  not  Flora,  but 
Mrs.  Linden  who  entered  his  study. 

He  had  seldom  met  her,  and  was  struck  with  the  nobility 
and  elegance  of  her  appearance,  as  she  accosted  him.  He 
rose,  and  courteously  laid  aside  his  cigar,  and  inquired  as  to 
the  health  of  her  pupil. 

Mrs.  Linden  felt  the  embarrassment  of  her  situation,  and 
the  difficulty  of  disclosing  her  en'und,  but  the  sense  of  doing 
right  sustained  her ;  and  she  approached  the  subject,  by 
speaking  of  the  extreme  sensitiveness  of  Flora  ;  and  that 
she  supposed  herself  to  be  the  entire  cause  of  her  illness. 

"  You.  surprise  and  alarm  me,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

*'  I  fear  I  shall  do  so  still  more,"  the  lady  replied,  "for  my 
errand  is  an  unpleasant  and  painful  one  ;  nothing  but  a  consci- 
entious sense  of  duty,  and  my  real  love  for  Flora,  has 
induced  me  so  to  agitate  her." 

"  Agitate  her  [  madam,  what  have  you  been  doing  ? 
Please  preftice  as  little  as  convenient." 

"  I  have  warned  her  of  her — danger." 

"  Danger  I  madam.     To  what  is  she  exposed  ?" 

"  To  the  sorrow  that  comes  from  disappointment,  the 
anguish  of  a  blighted  heart — from  this  I  would  save  her,  if 
not  from  a  worse  fate." 

"  What  absurd  sentimentality  is  this,  Mrs.  Linden  ?  From 
a  weak-minded  woman  I  might  have  looked  for  such  nonsense, 
but  in  you,,  madam,  it  seems  like  insanity.  If  you  refer  to  my 
ward's  attachment  to  me,,  allow  me,  with  all  possible  courtesy, 
to  say  to  you,  that  such  matters  come  not  within  your  juris- 
diction ;  and  that  I  consider  that,  of  late,  you  have  already 
overstepped  them,  in,  the  restraint  which  you  have  put  upou 
Miss  Islington's  movements.  I  have  never  intended  that  she 
should  be  made  a  prisoner." 

"  Release  her  then,  sir,  from  bonds  which  bind  her  stronger, 
than  even  fetters  of  steel.  I  have  urged  her  to  leave  you, 
while  she  has  the  power  to  do  so.  I  have  offered  her  a  home  ; 
there  1  will  continue  to  educate  her,  and  if,  at  the  expiration 
of  a  few  months,  your  judgment  convinces  you  that  she  is  your 
choice  for  a  wife,  I  will  be  the  last,  my  dear  sir,  to  oppose 
you." 

"Mrs.  Linden,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  pale  with  excitement 


IsorasChild.  63 

"  will  you  present  me  with  your  bill  this  evening  ?  and  relieve 
me  henceforth  from  the  presence  of  one,  who  has  grossly 
insulted  me.  Miss  Islington  is  no  longer  your  pupil,  and  I  as 
her  guardian  forbid  you  to  have  further  intercourse  with  her." 
Mr.  Clarendon  then  turned  abruptly,  and  left  the  library. 
Mrs.  Linden  passed  out  of  the  opposite  door  to  her  own 
cliamber.  A  servant  soon  after  entered  the  apartment  of 
Flora  with  a  message  from  her  guardian,  summoning  her 
to  his  presence  in  the  parlor. 

Flora  sought  Mrs.  Linden,  whose  step  she  had  heard  enter- 
ing her  room. 

"  Shall  I  go  ?"  said  she,  clasping  the  hand  of  her  governess. 

"  I  can  no  longer  control  you,  my  dear;  I  shall  leave  you 
to-night,  go,  if  you  wish." 

"  You  have  been  weeping,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Flora, 
tenderly. 

'*  My  tears  are  for  you,  my  love — may  Heaven  guard  you  ! 
go  to  him,  and  forgive  tlie  pain  I  have  caused  you.  Before 
you  return,  I  shall  have  gone.  Here  is  my  address,  reveal  it 
to  no  one.  If  I  can  ever  befriend  you,  come  to  me.  And 
now,  farewell !" 

Flora  flew  to  the  arms  of  her  governess,  and  tore  her- 
self in  sorrow  away.  She  was  soon  in  the  presence  of  her 
guardian.  They  had  not  met  for  several  days,  and  now 
Flora  approached  the  latter,  pale  and  tearful.  He  had 
rarely  seen  her  thus  ;  he  knew  the  cause  of  her  sorrow,  and 
clasped  her  fervently  to  his  heart. 

"  She  would  tear  you  away  from  me  !  my  own  !  my 
darling  !  But  she  has  gone  away — the  Gorgon  ! — and  you 
shall  be  prisoner  no  longer — but  mine — viiiie,  my  precious 
Flora  !" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  guardian,"  sobbed  the  wretched  girl,  "  don't 
blame  her,  she  is  so  good,  and  means  to  spare  me  suffering. 
She  has  opened  my  eyes  to  my  true  position,  and  I  know  now 
•that  I  shall  not  always  be  dear  to  you,  and. that  another  will 
come  and  fill  my  place  in  your  heart,  vt^ho  will  be  bound  to 
you  by  the  holiest  vows,  such  as  cannot  be  broken,  and  then 
where  will  poor  discarded  Flora  stand  ?.  Oh,  yes  ;  let  me  go 
before  then  :  the  struggle  has  cost  me  much,  but  the  worst  is 


over." 


How  like  a  foolish  child  you  talk,'.'  said. Mr.  Clarendon, 


64:  Isoka's    Child. 

clasping  the  hand  of  Flora,  "  this  woman  has  crazed  you. 
Didn't  your  mother  give  you  to  me,  with  her  last  breath  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  and  you  have  been  good  to  me,  so  good— my 
heart  breaks  when  I  think  of  it  all  ;  but  she  did  not  know 
what  a  foolish  heart  her  poor  little  Flora  had — how  dearly  it 
could  love.  Oh,  my  dear  guardian,  if  you  were  not  so  kind  to 
me,  I  could  better  leave  you." 

"  Leave  me  !  you  shall  not  !  by  all  that  is  great  and  good  ! 
I  will  lock  you  up,  before  I  will  suffer  you  to  go  off  unpro- 
tected. What  do  I  know  of  this  woman  who  would  steal  you 
from  me  ? — the  artful  wretch  !  She  has  given  you  more  sorrow 
than  you  have  known  for  years.  Bat  she  has  gone  now  ;  and 
there  is  no  one  left  to  take  you  from  me,  my  little  innocent 
one  !  "Why,  it  is  but  a  short  time  since  you  feared  me  no 
more  than  Sappho,  and  now  this  wise  governess  would  fill  your 
head  with  villainous  nonsense." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  she  is  right — I  must  go  away  from  you  ;  and,  if 
you  really  love  me,  we  shall  meet  again  ;  and,  if  you  don't,  and 
another  comes  here  to  more  than  fill  my  place,  why  then  it  will 
be  better  that  I  am  gone." 

''Really  love  you  !  Flora,  you  know  I  do — madly  love  you 
— as  I  never  shall  another  being." 

"And  yet" — 

"  What  ?  Flora,  be  free — wholly  frank  in  all  you  say — 
there  is  no  one  now  to  disturb  us." 

"  I 'have  nothing  to  say.  1  know  that  I  am  naught  in  your 
estimation  but  a  little  foreign  girl,  without  friends  or  relations 
— that  you  pity  more  than  love  me.  But.  oh  !  still  I  am  proud 
—too  proud  to  hold  a  second  place  in  your  love.  Now  I  have 
said  all — more  than  I  thought  I  could,"  murmured  Flora,  as 
she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl.  Why  do  you  talk  to  me  of  one  I 
may  yet  marry  ?  Supposing  I  should,  need  she  v/holly  occupy 
my  heart  ?" 

"  Not  your  viifeV  said  Flora,  with  startling  earnestness. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  such  tame  subjects,  Flora  ;  forget 
these  days  of  sorrow,  and  again  amuse  yourself.  You  are 
wholly  mistress  now,  and  can  be  with  me  at  every  meal — at  all 
times,  when  you  please.     I  will  not  leave  you  so  often." 

The  pallor  of  Flora's  cheek  momentarily  increased  ;  faint- 
uess  crept  stealthily  over  her  ;  the  excitement  of  the  cocversa- 


I  S  O  R  a'  S      C  H  I  L  D  .  65 

tiou  had  been  more  than  her  frame  could  bear  ;  and  she  sank 
upon  the  arm  of  her  guardian,  senseless  and  death-like. 

With  intense  alarm,  he  laid  her  ujDon  the  sofa,  and  called  for 
Benson  to  come  to  his  aid.  The  latter  immediately  obeyed, 
and  with  her  strong  arm  attempted  to  lift  Flora  from  her  posi- 
tion, to  carry  her  into  the  air. 

"  Give  her  to  me,"  said  Clarendon,  pushing  Benson  aside. 

"  The  best  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  your  tea,  and  send  Jessie 
in.  She  will  come  to,  I'll  warrant,  after  you  are  gone.  If 
she'd  been  sitting  with  me,  I  reckon,  she  wouldn't  a-fainted. 
Pretty  business  this  !" 

"  She  seems  better  now.     Handle  her  gently,  Benson." 

"  Will  you  please  go  to  your  tea  ?  I  know  how  to  euro 
faints  :  send  in  a  feather  and  some  vinegar.  No  use,  I  tell 
you,  in  fanning  the  breath  out  of  her,  nor  dashing  water  on 
her,  eitlier.  If  I  could  raise  her,  so  as  to  let  her  breathe  a 
little,  she'd  do  well  enough." 

"  Benson,  if  you  manage  in  that  rough  way,  I'll  order  you 
out  of  the  room.  She  does  not  need  your  aid  ;  and  you  shall 
not  lay  another  finger  on  her.  Leave  her  to  me  ;  she's  reviv- 
ing now.  Are  you  better.  Flora  ?"  said  Clarendon,  holding 
some  wine  to  her  lips. 

"  Yes — oh,  yes  ;  let  me  go  to  my  room,"  murmured  the  lan- 
guid girl. 

"  Yes.  that's  the  best  place  for  her,"  said  Benson.  "  I'll 
help  her  along." 

But  before  Benson  could  approach  Flora,  her  guardian  had 
lifted  her,  and  carried  her  to  her  own  apartment,  where  he 
ordered  a  waiting-maid  to  be  sent  to  her  assistance. 

Mr.  Clarendon  had  been  much  alarmed  and  disturbed  by 
recent  events,  and  deeply  chagrined  at  Flora's  threats  of  leav- 
ing him,  which  he  greatly  feared  she  would  put  in  execution. 
He  could  not  rest  until  he  had  again  see  her,  and  received  her 
promise  of  remaining  with  him  as  she  had  done. 

But  when  he  met  her  the  following  day,  the  change  in 
Flora,  deeply  alarmed  him  ;  there  was  no  excitement  in  her 
manner,  but  decision  and  courage  seemed  to  have  overcome 
feeling,  and  her  tones  now  were  calm  and  placid  as  her  brow. 

*'  May  I  leave  you,"  said  her  guardian,  **  with  no  fears  of 
any  mad  elopement,  and  with  the  assurance,  that  you  will  be 
rational  and  happy  once  more  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will  be  rational  and  happy,  and  never-more  grate- 


6Q  Isora'sChild. 

ful  thau  in  the  hour  tliat  I  bid  you  adieu — for  my  resolution 
is  formed.  I  will  become  independent,  and  you  shall  at  least 
respect  the  daughter  of  my  poor  lost  mother — her  whose  last 
hours  you  soothed — whose  grave  you  honored,  and  whose  little 
orphan  child  you  reared  and  educated — and  who  learned  to 
love  yoM — too — too  well !  Thanks,  too,  to  the  kind  governess 
you  placed  over  me,  I  have  been  led  to  a  sense  of  my  duty, 
and  have  been  enabled  through  Gud,  to  bid  you  farewell.  1 
shall  go  to  her — and  will  sometimes  write  to  you."  The  tears 
of  Flora  now  choked  her  words,  and  her  guardian  who  had 
silently  listened,  replied  as  feelingly. 

"  If  you  ivill  go.  Flora,  I  shall  not  longer  bid  you  stay — 
but  remember,  if  you  desert  me,  that  you  alienate  my  heart 
for  ever.  I  have  loved  you — I  do  love  you  to  idolatry.  Flora, 
but  it  is  with  no  boy's  love — to  bear  caprice  and  folly.  Be 
mine,  and  you  have  my  worship — love  me,  and  I  will  idolize 
you — but  desert  me,  and  I  will  no  more  heed  you  than  the 
gtranger  that  passeth  by  my  door — choose  then  for  the  last 
time — go  to  your  friend,  whom  you  know  not  but  as  my  enemy, 
or  abide  by  one  who  has  guarded  and  protected  you  in  infancy 
■ — worshiped  you  in  girlhood — and  who  will  adore  you  as  a 
woman.  Choose,  Flora,  and  that  quickly,"  said  her  guardian, 
while  his  lips  whitened,  as  he  bent  his  eyes  upon  the  pale, 
statue-like  girl. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Flora,  in  a  low,  but  steady  voice. 
"  Did  you  hear  me  ?"  said  he  again,  hastily,  while  he  kept  an 
earnest  gaze  upon  her. 
"  I  did,"  she  murmured. 

Louis  Clarendon  rose  and  left  the  house.  Before  he  returned, 
a  carriage  had  borue  Flora  from  his  home. 


I  8  O  R  a'  S      C  II  I  L  D  .  67 


CHAPTER    YI. 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide, 
So  human  passions  ebb  and  flow. 


Byron. 


Il  FR.  CLARENDON  returned  to  his  residence  at  a  late  hour  ; 
1»J.  until  midnight  he  paced  his  study,  in  such  bitterness  and 
grief  as  he  had  never  known.  He  felt  himself  deeply  wronged, 
purloined  of  a  treasure  he  valued  beyond  gold ;  and  he  consi- 
dered Mrs.  Linden  the  one  who  had  designedly  robbed  him. 
He  had  viewed  Flora  as  bound  to  him  by  ties  too  strong  to  be* 
severed  ;  and  now  arbitrarily  condemned  her,  as  heartless  and 
ungrateful.  He  knew  not  until  she  fled,  how  passionately  he 
loved  her,  and  how  desolate  was  his  home,  without  her  glad, 
free,  joyous  presence.  Like  a  dove  with  out-stretched  wings, 
she  had  ever  flown  to  his  bosom,  and  now  he  could  hear 
nothing  but  her  low,  plaintive,  sad  notes,  as  she  winged,  herself 
in  sorrow  away.  He  knew  that  she  would  droop— perhaps 
die,  without  him  ;  and  as  days  passed,  and  he  missed  her  more 
painfully,  at  times  he  would  vow  to  seek  and  wed  her.  But 
with  each  year  that  passed  over  his  head,  he  had  grown  more 
ambitious  for  worldly  distinction.  He  had  powerful  rivals  who 
tried  to  crush  him ;  and  the  sneers  that  often  met  his  ears, 
respecting  his  mysterious  protege,  whom  the  world  looked 
upon  as  the  illegitimate  ofispring  of  an  Italian,  and  unknown 
by  her  own  sex,  save  for  her  extraordinary  beauty,  and  well- 
known  musical  talents,  embarrassed  him  in  view  of  a  matri- 
monial connection  with  her.  Flora  was  not  educated  for 
society  ;  and  he  well  knew  that  her  secluded  tastes  and  habits, 
and  her  aversion  to  strangers,  would  unfit  her  for  the  position 
his  wife  must  assume  in  the  fashionable  world  ;  and  that  were 
she  free  and  social,  with  her  surpassing  loveliness  and  freedom 
of  manner,  he  should  become  jealous  of  the  admiration  and 
attention  she  would  receive.     For  months  he  was  perplexed, 


68  Is  o  R  a'  3    Child. 

and  harassed,  with  conflicting  interests — his  love  bade  hira  seek 
his  beautiful  lost  Flora,  but  his  pride  and  ambition,  to  forget 
her,  and  in  fame  and  distinction  to  seek  that  aggrandizement 
for  which  his  self-love  panted. 

He  had  long  wished  to  marry  ;  he  knew  that  he  was  now 
more  free  to  act  as  his  judgment  dictated — unembarrassed  by 
the  idolatry  of  one,  whose  heart  would  be  crushed  by  such  au 
event,  while  she  remained  an  inmate  of  his  home.  Away,  she 
might  forget  him — perhaps,  love  another.  The  last  reflection 
was  painful  in  the  extreme.  Thus  months  of  indecision,  and 
unhappiness,  passed  away  ;  wdiile  Mr.  Chirendon  found  relief 
only  in  his  professional  duties,  which  grew  more  arduous  and 
engrossing.  He  still  had  his  dinners,  and  bachelor  clubs,  and 
mingled  more  than  ever  at  night  in  the  gayest  circles  of  the 
metropolis,  and  his  devotion  to  many  elegant  women  caused 
successive  rumors  to  arise  respecting  his  matrimonial  intentions; 
and  not  unfrequently  had  his  secret  choice  been  made  for  a 
mistress  of  his  home  ;  but  when  on  the  eve  of  a  proposal  to 
the  stylish  belle,  who  had  dazzled  him,  his  disgust  was  invaria- 
bly excited  by  a  display  either  of  heartlessness,  or  of  weakness  of 
intellect,  on  the  lady's  part,  that  unfitted  her,  in  his  fastidious 
taste,  to  be  the  companion  of  his  life.  The  freshness  and  purity 
of  Flora's  mind  and  character,  with  her  youthful  charms,  sur- 
passed, in  his  estimation,  the  interested  fashionable  woman,  who, 
his  discerning  glance  detected,  had  an  eye  to  his  purse  and  his 
position,  as  well  as  to  his  personal  qualities. 

A  year  finally  passed  away — he  had  but  once  heard  from 
Flora.  Her  letter  was  touching  and  grateful,  but  firm  in 
her  decision  to  abandon  him — she  bade  him  think  of  her  as  a 
sister  who  would  cherish  the  memory  of  all  his  kindness  to 
her.  Her  words  were  brief  but  sad  ;  she  spoke  affectionately 
of  Mrs.  Linden,  and  sent  her  love  to  Benson,  and  "  dear  old 
Sappho." 

Mr.  Clarendon's  reply  was  equally  brief.  He  simply 
begged  her  to  accept  a  sum  due  her  as  a  fulfillment  of  the 
trust  reposed  in  him  by  her  mother — which  would  relieve  her 
at  least  from  actual  want.  No  word  of  love  accompanied 
the  note. 

The  draft  was  returned  with  many  thanks,  and  confidence 
expressed  that  she  would  not  suffer  pecuniarily.  Thus  coolly 
closed  the  intercourse  between  Flora  and  her  guardian  ; 
while  the  latter  plunged  heartlessly  into  the  gayest  vortex  of 


Isora'sChild.  69 

dissipation,  thongh  he  daily  sickened  of  the  hollovvuess  and 
insincerity  of  the  world's  professions,  and  never  si,i2:hed  more 
earnestly  for  the  truth  and  pure  affection  of  a  guileless  heart, 
than  when  he  bowed  with  courtly  gallantry  at  the  shrine  of 
the  ambitious  and  worldly. 

Flora  had,  in  the  meanwhile,  sought  a  home  in  a  retired 
street  of  the  city  with  her  old  governess,  to  whom  she  became 
daily  more  endeared.  She  was  extremely  ill  for  weeks  after 
the  abandonment  of  her  guardian,  and  v/hen  she  deliriously 
raved  of  him,  Mrs.  Linden  was  ever  at  her  side,  to  soothe  and 
calm  her.  The  latter's  sufferings  were  also  extreme — aside 
from  her  own  untold  trials,  she  knew  that  she  had  been  the 
cause  of  much  sorrow,  and  had  excited  the  bitter  enmity  of 
Mr.  Clarendon. 

The  intercourse  of  Flora  with  her  friend  was  much  clouded 
by  the  mysterious  silence  of  the  latter  relating  to  her  own 
history,  also  the  secresy  of  her  movements,  and  her  frequent 
abandonment  of  her  home  for  an  indefinite  period,  when  she 
would  return  with  renewed  spirits.  She  preferred  sleeping 
alone,  and  Flora  knew  that  there  were  hours  when  her  privacy 
could  never  be  intruded  upon ;  but  her  rapid  step  could  be 
heard  pacing  the  floor  in  her  seclusion  ;  and  at  night,  wild  sobs 
would  often  come  from  her  breast,  which  Flora  heard  with 
sympathy  and  tears.  But  the  morning  showed  her  ever  calm 
and  serene,  and  ready  to  devote  herself  affectionately  to  the 
happiness  of  Flora.  But  she  tried  in  vain  to  restore  her 
pupil's  old  cheerfulness.  She  could  never  be  persuaded  to  look 
into  a  book  which  she  had  read  with  her  guardian  ;  and  if  she 
commenced  a  song  which  she  had  sung  with  him,  her  utterance 
would  fail,  and  with  uncontrolled  anguish  she  would  flee  to  her 
chamber  and  weep  ;  but  Mrs.  Linden  exerted  herself  strongly 
with  Flora  to  occupy  her  mind  and  body,  and  allowed  her  so 
little  opportunity  for  silent  grief,  that  her  health  escaped  mate- 
rial suffering.  She  taught  her  to  look  to  the  example  of  One 
who  had  suffered  and  died  for  her,  to  throw  the  burden  of  sin 
and  sorrow  upon  Him,  and  to  receive  consolation  in  that  love 
which  knows  no  change,  and  which  would  reward  her  for  acting 
conscientiously  at  the  cost  of  so  much  sacrifice. 

Her  cheek  was  paler  than  formerly,  but  she  grew  even  more 
beauiiful.  Her  form  expanded  to  perfect  symmetry,  it  became 
tall  and  full,  with  grace  and  elasticity.  The  expression  of  her 
large  eyes  was  mournful  and  melting  ;  their  ratliancc  !iad  in  a 


70  I  S  O  K  a'  S     C  H  r  L  D  . 

measure  softened,  and  her  smile  was  no  longer  glad  ;  but  none 
looked  upon  her  face  that  did  not  turn  again.  Mrs.  Linden's 
frequent  absences  from  home  rendered  her  necessary  as  an 
assistant  in  her  household  matters,  and  Flora  learned  to 
become  useful  and  energetic  in  the  performance  of  daily  duty. 
She  manifested  the  same  reluctance  to  the  society  of  strangers 
that  had  characterized  her  as  a  child,  consequently  few  knew 
the  once  petted  ward  of  Louis  Clarendon. 


CHAPTER  YIL 

A  lovely  being  scarcely  formed  or  moulded, 
A  rose  with  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded. 

Btron. 

a  TT  AVE  you  come  for  me  papa  ?"  said  Cora  Livingston,  half 

11  reproachfully  to  her  father,  while  she  put  back  from  her 
temples  tiie  silken  curls  that  had  there  clustered  for  sixteen 
years,  first  in  short  fleecy  ringlets,  now  grown  into  long  rich 
waves,  every  one  as  bright  as  a  sunbeam.  She  stood  upon  a 
high  ledge  of  rocks,  which  formed  a  bluff  upon  the  bank  of  the 
Hudson. 

Cora's  home  was  above  this  ledge,  to  which  she  had 
roved  near  sundown  :  whither  since  a  child  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  ramble,  not  so  much  like  a  mountain  goat  as  for- 
merly, but  still  with  a  step  as  free  as  the  roving  spirit  that 
went  down  into  the  w^ater  for  river  gods,  and  up  through  the 
silver-tinted  clouds  for  angels  ;  while  every  nook,  dell  and  dingle, 
contained  in  her  fancy  a  troop  of  fairies,  and  a  spot  for  a  mid- 
summer night's  dream. 

"  I  have  found  siicli  a  nice  seat  here,"  she  continued, 
"  among  the  rocks,  and  have  enjoyed  my  book  the  better  for  it. 
'Undine'  is  fanciful  enough  to  make  me  half  wish  myself  a 
water-spirit,  that  I  might  go  under  the  waves  and  witch  about 
as  she  did." 

"One  element,"  answered  her  father,  ''seems  to  me  space 
enough  for  a  crazy  girl  to  witch  in.     We  will  return  now  ;  I 


Isoka's    Child.  71 


have  come  for  you,  so  j'ou  must  finish  your  book  ou  your  return 


home 


The  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  green  hills,  rising  from 
the  flood,  covering  them  with  a  golden  light,  while  around  the 
hill-tops  lay  crimson  and  purple  clouds,  fading  as  the  rose- 
tinted  cheek  fades  with  the  coming  night  of  years.  And  as 
the  shades  of  evening  fell,  and  the  summer  air  grew  chill,  stars 
came  glittering  on  the  water  as  well  as  on  the  sky.  Calmly, 
meanwhile,  flowed  the  majestic  stream  through  its  picturesque 
pathway,  slowly,  peacefully,  as  if  reluctant  to  roll  onward  and 
leave  behind  such  wild  magnificence. 

Cora  took  the  arm  of  her  father,  her  eyes  gazing  in  delight 
through  the  blue  haze  of  evening  over  hill-top  and  water,  to 
the  red  light  in  the  west.  From  the  sky's  varying  hues  she 
looked  long  and  earnestly  through  the  green  valley,  where 
hazel  copse,  and  tufted  banks  of  moss,  lined  their  pathway,  and 
away  in  the  misty  air,  over  waving  elms,  tall  pines,  and  arch- 
ing willows,  to  the  clovery  shade  of  her  own  dear  home.  But 
the  gathering  shadows  came  thicker,  and  paler  faded  the 
ruddy  sky,  the  dews  of  evening  dropt  silently,  and  the  evening 
breeze  sunk  into  a  breathless  calm.  Cora  and  her  father 
walked  on  leisurely,  lulled  by  the  peacefulness  of  nature. 
Never  sung  the  whippowill  more  clear  and  shrill,  the  lantern- 
fly  never  spread  his  wings  more  glitteringly,  softly  bright.  So 
Cora  thought,  and  like  a  night  fairy  she  looked  in  that  rich 
twilight. 

Cora  seemed  younger  than  she  really  was  ;  and  she  had  so 
stealthily  crept  up  to  her  father's  shoulder  that  he  viewed  her 
still  as  a  child,  though  leaf  after  leaf  of  his  flowret  had 
expanded,  until  the  bud  was  fully  open.  The  father  and 
daughter  afforded  a  contrast  that  an  artist  would  have  eagerly 
looked  upon,  as  they  wandered  in  their  leafy  pathway  towards 
their  cottage  in  the  woods  :  the  one,  an  ethereal  vision,  the 
other,  a  face  repelling  in  its  expression  of  haughtiness  and 
pride  ;  and  yet,  smiles  came  over  the  latter  of  even  feminine 
fondness,  as  he  looked  upon  his  only  child,  and  marvelled  at 
her  enthusiasm  about  a  "  hot  buggy  night." 

In  these  days  of  rapid  locomotion,  it  is  fairly  to  be  presumed 
that  the  reader  has  viewed  the  banks  where,  at  the  period  of 
our  tale,  our  wanderers  are  treading  ;  and  that  the  same  eye 
has  rested  on  the  costly  edifices  of  architectural  elegance  that 
ornament  the  landscape,  as  the  traveller  nears  the  great  metro- 


72  Isora's    Child. 

polls  of  our  country  upon  these  noted  waters.  Little  can  be 
added  to  the  glowing  descriptions  so  often  furnished  by  the 
historian,  novelist,  and  poet,  whose  legends  are  associated  with 
sublimity  and  beauty  ;  and  enchanting  scenery,  if  not  ren- 
dered famous  by  classic  story,  is  unrivalled  in  imposing  gran- 
deur and  picturesque  wildness  in  both  the  old  world  and  the 
new.  The  snow-clad  mountains  of  Switzerland,  the  castled 
heights  of  the  Rhine,  where  vineyards  and  antique  edifices  rise 
rn  superb  majesty  on  crags  and  rocky  battlements,  may  awaken 
more  interest  in  the  lover  of  historic  lore  ;  but,  to  the  natu- 
ralist, who  has  an  eye  solely  to  the  glory  and  beauty  of  nature, 
nothing  can  outvie  the  everlasting  magnificent  hills  of  the 
Hudson,  with  its  precipitous  Highlands  and  undulating  shores. 
But,  searching  must  be  the  eye  that  peers  far  in  among  the 
wooded  hills,  to  reach  the  little  embosomed  cottage  of  Edward 
Livingston — nestled  in  its  ambush  of  green,  within  a  distant 
view  of  bolder  scenery — the  commencement  of  the  Highlands. 

The  deep  blue  of  evening  as  yet  but  sheds  a  glory  over  the 
landscape,  revealing  indistinctly  its  vine-wreathed  pillars,  now 
sweet  with  honeysuckles,  and  gay  with  the  many  shaded  petals 
of  the  prairie-rose.  Time  had  somewhat  marred  the  pristine 
purity  of  its  exterior,  and  the  lack  of  expenditure  in  its  out- 
ward adorning  was  obvious  in  its  blinds  of  faded  green,  and 
somewhat  dilapidated  roof,  that  sloped  towards  the  garden  ; 
yet,  but  one  view  was  needed  of  its  grounds  to  show  the  love 
of  its  proprietor  for  the  beautiful  things  of  nature.  The  cot- 
tage was  now  overhung  with  towering  branches,  musical  with 
birds  ;  and  the  wide  lawn,  which  extended  towards  the  river, 
showed  many  a  brilliant  bud  and  blossom  M'hich  studded  its 
deep  velvet  green.  The  spot  was  now  fragrant  as  a  bower, 
causing  Cora,  as  she  approached  it,  to  remark  on  its  secluded 
beauty. 

"It  is  natural,  my  daughter,"  said  the  Colonel,  as  he  was 
familiarly  called  in  the  neighborhood,  "  that  you  should  be 
attached  to  your  birth-place  ;  I  wish  I  had  known  no  other 
home,  and  that  I  could  banish  the  desire  for  my  own  ;  but  I 
am  not  one  easily  to  forget  old  memories,  or  old  injuries." 

Cora  looked  up  timidly  and  inquiringly,  while  her  father 
continued. 

•'  You  see  Mr.  Wilton's  place  among  the  willows  in  the  dis- 
tance— over  the  buckwheat-field,  beyond  the  poplar  grove,  oa 
an  eminence — you  have  often  spoken  of  its  beauty,  but  perhaps 


Child.  73 

never  knew  that  that  was  your  grandfather's  homestead — your 
father's  birth-place — the  home  of  my  childhood — my  rightful 
uiheritauce,  with  all  its  broad  lands.  Every  tree  that  waves 
over  its  once-honored  roof  was  sacred  to  my  parents  ;  there  I 
passed  my  boyhood,  and  had  my  boy-dreams  ;  there  I  last 
remember  my  mother  ;  and  there  lie  the  ashes  of  my  family  : 
but,  Cora,  it  is  no  longer  mine." 

"  I  have  heard  little  of  this,  papa,"  said  Cora  ;  "  but  I  like 
our  home  the  best.  I  would  not  exchange  it  for  '  the 
Park.' " 

"  Your  mother  loved  our  little  cottage,  too — our  place  was 
named  for  her — but  she  did  not  live  to  enjoy  it  long.  She  died 
at  your  birth,  and  left  you  my  only  solace.  And  you  have 
grown  up — not  very  high  yet — sadly  educated,  I  fear,  for  the 
reverses  of  life.  Cora,  you  ought  to  have  been  rich — heiress 
to  a  handsome  estate  ;  but,  through  fraud,  you  have  been 
wronged  out  of  it.  But  you  are  simple  as  a  buttercup,  my 
dauu-hter,  and  have  little  regret,  I  suppose,  for  your  loss." 

*'  Would  riches  make  us  much  happier,  papa  ?  For  the  love 
of  travel,  I  think  I  might  crave  wealth.  1  should  like  to  go 
all  over  the  world — on  the  deep  green  sea — on  the  wide  blue 
ocean — and  visit  the  tropics,  and  see  the  gorgeous  magnificent 
ilowers  that  grow  there  !  the  stupendous  trees,  too,  with  their 
broad  green  shelter,  and  the  beautiful  insects  and  brilliant 
birds  and  fireflies  ;  and  I  should  hke  to  see  Italian  sunsets,  and 
to  clamber  over  the  mountains  of  Switzerland,  to  the  very 
highest  peak.  I  sometimes  dream  about  these  things,  and,  in 
imagination,  I  visit  all  the  world  ;  and  then  I  am  crazed  with 
my  wanderings,  and  come  home  to  our  little  nest  in  the  woods, 
and  think  I  would  not  give  it  for  a  castle  on  the  Rhine,  or  the 
prettiest  vineyard  in  Italy  ;  and,  if  tropical  birds  are  more 
brilliant  than  ours,  they  don't  sing  so  sweetly,  and  there  is 
beauty  enough  everywere,  if  we  will  only  look  for  it." 

"  If  bugs  and  birds,  child,  are  all  you  wish  wealth  for,"  said 
the  Colonel  with  a  smile,  "  I  will  cease  to  repine  for  you. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  to  Scotland,  the  land  of  your  fore- 
fathers, and  to  live  in  the  style  that  your  ancestors  did  ?  They 
say  that  pride  is  your  father's  weakness — they  call  me  an  aris- 
tocrat— but  pride  and  poverty  are  poor  companions,  my  daugh- 
ter, and  in  this  democracy-levelling  government  one  might  as 
well  be  at  the  foot  as  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  But  oppressiou 
and  injustice  it  is  hard  to  suffer.     Talk  of  equality  I     Might  is 

4 


74:  Isora's    Child. 

riglit — and  money  is  the  touchstone.  Who  is  tliat  approach- 
ing us,  Cora?     He  meets  Mr.  Wilton — a  stranger  I  fancy.'' 

It  was  now  nearly  dark,  and  would  have  been  quite  so,  but 
for  the  light  of  a  crescent  moon  just  becoming  visible,  and  so 
the  curious  gaze  of  Cora,  and  tlie  faint  blush  upon  her  cheek, 
was  unobserved. 

They  both  entered  the  gate  of  the  dwelling  in  a  thoughtful 
mood.  Colonel  Livingston's  eye  was  still  roving  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mr.  Wilton's,  and  Cora's  musings  were  so  vague,  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  locate  them.  She  was  observant 
of  her  father's  gloom,  and  deeply  solicitous  when  he  suffered 
depression,  but  sanguinely  hoped  to  cheer  back  his  usual 
spirits.  She  knew  her  father's  peculiar  moods  and  whims,  for 
they  had  been  her  study  since  a  child,  and  she  was  peculiarly 
sensitive  to  the  pleasure  or  the  pain  they  caused  her. 

After  ordering  tea  she  lighted  the  evening  lamp,  and,  as  the 
night  air  was  damp,  gave  directions  for  a  fire  on  the  hearth, 
though  the  June  roses  were  blooming.  Cora  knew  what  her 
father  liked,  and  that  the  almanac  seasons  affected  his  judg- 
ment little,  regarding  the  period  for  fires  to  begin  or  end  ;  and 
as  the  air  grew  chill,  she  found  that  she  had  not  erred,  an 
approval  also  testified  by  the  cat,  as  she  purred  ^azily  upon  the 
rug,  and  little  Frisk  by  the  energetic  wag  of  his  tail,  as  they 
both  curled  up  on  soft  places  before  the  blazing,  crackling  cinders.' 

The  old  arm-chair  was  soon  wheeled  up,  the  evening  papers 
collected,  and  more  business  dispatched  in  a  short  space  of 
time  than  one  would  have  supposed  the  same  little  fingers,  and 
volatile  brain,  could  have  together  accomplished.  But  where 
another's  happiness  was  concerned,  and  that  one  her  dear  and 
only  parent,  Cora  knew  no  task  too  great  for  her  to  perform  ; 
and  though  everything  seemed  to  go  wrong,  even  to  the  kit- 
chen, tea  was  ready  in  season,  and  the  toast  prepared  to  the 
very  shade  of  brownness  her  somewhat  irritable  father 
required. 

Cora  knew  little  of  the  science  of  music,  and  was  no  pro- 
fessed singer,  but  she  had  a  way  of  warbling  that  was  always 
sweet  to  lier  father.  It  seemed,  he  said,  like  robin's  music  at 
break  of  day.  And  to-night  she  seemed  full  of  it,  as  she  flitted 
about  the  house,  humming  a  little  on  the  piano,  arranging 
the  ice  on  the  butter — the  toast  straight  on  the  table,  that  the 
Irish  girl  always  stood  diagonally — and  herself  adjusting  the 
cherry  radishes  and  pepper-grass — which  tusk  she  liked  to  per- 


IsoKA'sCniLD.  75 

form — always  discarding  the  onions  that  the  housekeeper 
placed  beside  them. 

But  as  Cora  kne^v  that  her  father  liked  the  last,  she  resolved 
that  to-night  nothing  shoukl  be  denied  him,  so  the  odoriferous 
vegetable,  which  has  made  for  ever  renowned  the  village  of 
WethersQeld  of  good  old  Connecticut,  was  permitted  a  place 
along-side  of  the  ruby  radishes,  that  lay  like  red  rose  .buds  in 
their  ambush  of  green. 

But  her  warbling  finally  ceased,  and  the  Colonel  knew  that 
tea  was  ready,  if  the  fragrance  near  him  had  not  already 
revealed  it.  He  did  not  speak,  but  half  smiled  at  her  attempt 
to  please  his  palate.  Cora  was  a  young  housekeeper,  and  iiad 
only  quite  lately  assumed  the  right  to  pour  tea  for  her  father, 
but  her  proposal  meeting  the  approljation  of  Mrs.  Jonson,  the 
woman  who  occupied  a  midway  position  between  the  kitchen 
and  parlor,  she  commenced  the  performance  of  the  duty. 

Mrs.  Jonson  was  a  lady — so  she  called  herself — and  made 
of  "  as  good  flesh  and  blood  "  as  anybody  ;  and  "  liked  stay- 
ing at  Captain  Livestone's,"  because  there  seemed  to  her  a 
chance  of  here  asserting  her  equality.  She  knew  better  than 
to  present  herself  at  table,  but  still  as  there  was  no  interdict 
for  her  absence,  and  no  mistress  but  a  child  to  rule,  she  did  not 
therefore  feel  that  her  dignity  was  weakened  by  her  situation  ; 
and,  in  order  to  raise  her  importance  with  the  servants,  and  to 
sliow  her  quality,  she  would  on  sundry  occasions  seat  herself 
with  a  private  slice  on  one  corner  of  the  half  cleared  board, 
and  eat  her  repast  in  the  coolest  manner — a  liberty  which  she 
was  discreet  enough  to  take  while  the  Colonel  was  smoking  on 
the  piazza.  But  to-night  Cora  was  in  great  favor  with  the 
upper  servant,  in  consequence  of  the  dehut  of  onions  at  table, 
and,  therefore,  she  suddenly  approved  of  her  superintendence 
to  a  degree  in  domestic  affairs,  even  exhibiting  her  good 
nature,  by  taking  a  highly-flavored  favorite  herself  from  the 
Colonel's  private  dish,  by  way  of  trial,  after  tea. 

But  the  repast  over,  the  Colonel  sunk  into  his  previous 
depressed  mood,  and  Cora's  efforts  to  please  were  vain,  and  the 
tears  finally  started  to  her  eyes,  when  she  not  only  witnessed 
her  father's  sadness,  but  ill-humor,  which  he  evinced  by  kick- 
ing her  little  dog  from  a  most  unobtrusive  corner  on  the  rug, 
to  so  near  a  proximity  to  the  hot  tongs  as  to  cause  such  yelp- 
ings and  piteous  whines,  as  were  decidedly  exciting  and  painful 
to  his  tender-iiearted  mistress. 


76  IsoRA^'s    Child. 

After  this  incident,  Cora  vanished,  and  though  there  was  not 
light  enough  for  her  to  read  a  shop-sign,  if  there  had  been  one 
in  view,  she  seemed  for  a  time  much  occupied  with  a  book  of 
poems  on  the  door-step.  But  after  awhile,  with  a  sigh  aud  a 
light  step,  she  went  within,  and  seated  herself  by  a  lamp  to 
work  a  pair  of  slippers  for  her  father,  which  attracted  Mrs. 
Jonson's  notice,  who  the  next  day  sent  to  town  for  worsteds, 
and  commenced  a  pair  for  herself,  which  pattern  pleased  her 
much,  and  which  promised  to  turn  out  something  between  a 
bag  and  a  small  mouse,  on  a  pink  ground. 

Cora  liked  sympathy  from  any  source  to-night  ;  and  conse- 
quently encouraged  Mrs.  Jonson  in  her  plans,  and  promised  to 
work  the  horns  and  tail  of  the  animal  for  her. 

But  as  the  ambitious  domestic  retreated  on  the  sudden 
entrance  and  stare  of  the  Colonel,  Cora  was  left  by  herself — her 
soft,  light  ringlets  shading  her  cheek,  which  to-night  was  more, 
like  a  snow-drop  than  a  rose. 

To  an  observer,  it  might  seem  a  pity  that  such  beautiful 
blue  eyes  should  be  dimmed  with  tears,  but  they  would  come 
occasionally,  causing  her  the  loss  of  a  gay-looking  stitch.  Her 
father's  gloom  bad  much  saddened  her.  In  the  meanwhile,  he 
continued  to  walk  the  room,  his  head  down,  and  his  hands 
behind  him.  And  so  the  pacing  kept  up,  until  Cora  grew  more 
nervous,  and  finally  threw  down  her  crewels,  and  putting  her 
head  upon  the  table,  actually  cried. 

"  Cora,  my  daughter,"  said  the  Colonel,  stopping,  *'  what 
is  the  matter  ? — you  are  foolish  to  injure  your  eyes  sewing  so 
much  with  that  red  yarn.  What  is  it  all  worth  ?  Are  you 
really  crying,  Cora  ?" 

The  Colonel  laid  his  hand  upon  his  daughter's  head,  and 
urged  her  to  look  up. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,  papa,  but  you  feel  bad  to-night.'' 

**  Oh  !  no,  child — not  much  " — said  the  Colonel,  trying  to  be 
brisk,  "  I  was  thinking — that  is  all.  I  will  go  to  bed — where's 
Mrs.  Jonson  ?  Isn't  she  a  very  fussy  woman  ?  very  meddle- 
some ?  Does  she  know  her  place,  my  daughter  ?  new  servants  are 
troublesome.    If  she  has  airs,  she  ca^iH  stay — order  lights,  child." 

Cora  did  as  she  was  bid,  when  her  father  drew  her  towards 
him,  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  told  her  again  not  to  spoil 
her  eyes,  that  he  was  poor  company  for  her,  but  hoped  to  feel 
better  in  the  morning.  She  then  bade  him  a  sad  good  night, 
and  went  to  her  chamber. 


I  S  O  R  a'  S     C  II  I  L  D  .  77 

Before  seeking  her  rest,  she  took  from  a  drawer  her  mother's 
picture — a  little  miniature  which  showed  her  own  soft  eyes, 
and  gleaming,  sunny  hair  ;  and  now  Cora's  pensive  expression 
made  the  resemblance  stronger.  She  sighed  to  think  tliat  slic 
luid  never  known  the  love  of  the  original,  and  laid  it  away 
with  glistening  tears.  She  then  read  from  the  Bible,  which 
had  been  the  dying  gift  of  her  mother,  and  perused  the  pen- 
cilled lines  in  it  written  by  the  lingers  now  lifeless.  These 
she  read  niglitly,  and  retired,  feeling  that  tliere  was  one 
angel-spirit  in  Heaven,  who  watclied  over  her.  The  hour  of 
midnight  came,  before  Colonel  Livingston  slept,  his  mind 
constantly  dwelling  upon  his  reduced  circumstances  ;  and  filled 
with  bitterness  towards  him  whom  he  considered  the  ruiner 
of  his  fortunes. 

He  thought  with  humiliation  of  his  limited  means,  and  of 
the  influence  of  the  man  daily  rising  through  the  talisman  of 
wealth,  to  which  he  considered  himself  entitled  ;  while  he 
was  embarrassed  even  to  maintain  a  comfortable  living,  in  the 
style  which  he  considered  befitting  a  gentleman — a  situation 
especially  mortifying  to  a  man  of  unbounded  pride,  who  had 
the  double  trial  of  being  poor,  with  the  painful  dread  of  his 
poverty  being  known.  Consequently,  expenses  were  incurred, 
upon  a  credit  fast  failing,  and  servants  maintained  for  the  sake 
of  appearances,  who  took  little  interest  in  economizing  behind 
the  cupboard  for  outward  display.  Thus  heavy  debts  were 
oppressing  the  once  proud  heir  of  the  large  estate  left  by  his 
father,  which  had  passed  out  of  his  hands. 

The  visionary  hope  of  finally  recovering  this  property,  gave 
a  death-blow  to  his  natural  energy  of  character,  and  prevented 
his  following  any  active  pursuit,  that  would  afford  him  a  com- 
petence. Consequently,  he  subsisted  upon  the  remnant  of  a 
small  estate  left  him  by  his  wife,  the  cottage  of  Yillacora 
constituting  a  part  of  it. 

Ou  these  matters,  the  Colonel  ruminated  to  a  late  hour  ; 
while  his  daughter  closed  her  eyes,  lightly  and  peacefully, — 
her  bosom  had  been  slightly  ruffled,  but,  like  the  rays  of  the 
young  moon  that  fell  ou  her  pillow,  her  spirit  tranquilly  re- 
posed. She  had  had  a  delicious  afternoon  beside  tlie  blue 
waters  she  loved,  and  had  richly  enjoyed  her  book  ;  and 
though  the  twilight  seemed  to  reveal  but  the  natural  beauties 
of  a  landscape,  with  which  she  was  familiar  ;  yet  to  the  v'siou 
Lad  been  added  memories  that  still  lingered,  excited  no  one 


78  Isora'sCiiild. 

exactly  knew  when  or  where,  but,  perhaps,  in  her  wanderings 
by  the  water,  and  in  the  green  woods,  where  she  roamed  as 
freely  as  a  squirrel,  and  as  fearless  of  harm.  But  now,  as  a 
flower  closes  its  petals  under  the  wing  of  night,  so  she  shut 
up  her  sweet  fancies,  one  by  one,  until  she  slept — the  curl  upon 
her  cheek  scarcely  lifted  by  her  breathing.  The  shadow  that 
experience  in  life's  warfare  brings,  had  never  passed  over  her 
brow,  and  serene  as  morning  among  her  native  hills,  had  been 
thus  far  her  joyous,  bird-like  life.  Blessed  with  a  disposition 
that  extracted  beauty  from  each  natural  source,  as  freely  as 
bees  suck  honey  from  fields  of  clover,  she  found  light  and  fra- 
grance in  each  rosy  path  ;  and  like  a  lark  on  the  wing,  slie  arose 
with  a  song  on  her  lips.  She  had  but  recently  returned  from 
school,  to  tiuish  her  education  at  home  ;  and  under  the  faithful 
tuition  of  her  accomplished  parent,  she  daily  pursued  her  stu- 
dies ;  and  the  devoted  tenderness  and  patience  with  which 
her  father  stored  her  young  mind  with  knowledge,  the 
solicitude  he  evinced  for  her  gratification,  in  all  innocent  enjoy- 
nibuts,  and  the  earnest  look  that  often  melted  the  rigidity  of 
his  stern  features,  as  he  looked  upon  his  beautiful  child,  told  how 
tenderly  he  loved  her.  The  old  gardener,  who  had  plodded 
on  for  a  year,  with  scanty  pay.  for  the  pride  of  the  family  (he 
had  worked  for  the  Colonel's  father  when  a  boy),  loved  *'  Little 
Lily,"  as  he  affectionately  called  Cora,  as  well  as  his  favorite 
Japonica  ;  and  old  Sophy,  the  cook,  who  looked  forward  to 
Christmas  for  her  earnings,  believed  that  *'  Missey  Cory  "  was 
"  too  sweet  for  arth,"  so  that,  with  petting  in  the  kitchen,  and 
idolatry  from  her  father,  Cora  had  grown  up  in  the  lap  of 
indulgence,  totally  unaware  of  the  poverty  of  the  purse  that  had 
from  childhood  supplied  her  wants. 

Mrs,  Jonsoii,  the  new-comer,  had  taken  the  place  of  the  dis- 
couraged old  housekeeper  (who  prudently  left  the  family  of  the 
Colonel  with  some  squeezed  out  tears,  and  more  squeezed  out 
dollars,  on  her  final  pay  day),  and  knowhig  nothing  of  the  low 
state  of  her  employer's  finances,  was  at  present  in  a  flattering, 
comfortable  state  of  mind.  She  often  wondered  "  why  the 
Colonel  brushed  up  his  seedy  coat  so  much,  and  why  he  didn't 
furnish  and  paint  the  shabby  cottage,  that  might  be  such  a 
beauty  of  a  place,"  but  concluded  that  "  grand  people  liked  old 
things,  old  chairs,  and  old  cracked  pitchers,  and  old  pictures, 
better  than  those  that  looked  new  and  shiny" — and  she  finally 
began  to  think  that  they  "  did  look  more  genteel  like  ;"  so  to 


Isora's    Child.  79 

be  ill  better  favor  with  the  Colonel,  she  tried  to  make  a  dress 
for  herself,  like  that  in  old  Lady  Livingston's  portrait,  out  of 
bombazet  instead  of  brocade — the  only  resemblance  which 
she  accomplished  beins^  that  tliey  both  "stuck  out  ;"  but  flour 
iu  hair  she  ?ever  could  abide,  if  it  was  "  old  tiraey  ;"  and  as  to 
brushiui^  it  straight  up  in  the  air,  she  couldn't  either,  for  hers 
was  a  frizette,  and  had  to  be  tied  on.  But  tlie  Colonel,  unfor- 
tunately, was  ignorant  of  Mrs.  Jonsou's  efforts  to  please  his 
'old  fashioned  taste,"  and  had  little  thoughts  about  her, 
excepting  when  her  short,  fat  figure  stood  presumptuously  in  his 
way.  But  Cora  liked  her  better,  because  s.he  was  always  ready 
to  talk  to  her  about  any  of  her  pets,  plans,  or  projects  ;  and 
the  way  she  tucked  her  up  at  night,  and  displayed  her  peculiar 
powers  of  fascination,  greatly  amused  her.  Besides,  Mrs. 
Jonson  liked  good  things  ;  and  was  fond  of  private  lunches  ; 
and  as  she  carried  the  keys,  took  advantage  of  the  privilege, 
by  taking,  as  she  said,  "  now  and  then  a  pickle  ;"  but  Cora 
wondered  how  she  could  make  so  many  nice  things  out  of  the 
pickle  jar,  she  being  often  invited  to  her  bed-room  to  partake 
with  her,  by  way  of  a  salvo  to  her  conscience.  But  the  "  pickle 
jar"  daily  grew  astonisliingly  lower;  and  the  cook's  larder 
scantier  ;  and  as  the  Colonel's  purse  grew  no  heavier,  there 
was  little  increase  in  anything,  but  in  the  length  of  his  coun- 
tenance. This  Mrs.  Jonson  cared  little  about,  presuming  it  was 
style  to  look  sober,  and  "  old  timey  "  not  to  laugh  like  vulgar 
people,  but  she  thought  it  was  careless  in  him  not  to  fill  up  the 
store-room  better. 

"  She  wasn't  used  to  ekino:,  she  knew  that." 


CHAPTER     yill. 

He  cast 

O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavunly  hue 

Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  passed.     . 

JiYRON. 

MR.  CLARENDON  was  now  sailing  on  the  tide  of  poj)u- 
larity,  borne  gallantly  on  the  breeze  of  fame  and 
wealth.  Since  Flora  left  him  he  had  devoted  himself  more 
exclusively  to  his  profession,  and  the  reputation  which  he  hacj 


80  I  S  O  K  a'  S      C  II  I  L  D  . 

gained  at  the  bar,  was  fully  exliibited  in  the  demand  made  upon 
his  time  and  legal  abilities.  He  grew  daily  more  extravagant 
and  volnptnous  in  his  tastes  ;  even  the  upper  ten  looked  with 
amazement  upon  his  lavish  expenditure,  and  most  sagely  con- 
cluded that  he  was  at  last  adorning  his  residence  for  a  bride  ; 
but  no  fair  lady  appearing,  he  was  at  last  permitted  to  enjoy 
his  single  life  undisturbed  by  criticism,  while  his  bachelor 
friends,  who  partook  of  his  hospitality,  congratulated  him  on 
his  blessed  independence,  and  freedom  from  the  miserable 
shackles  his  unfortunate  brother  benedicts  were  doomed  lo 
wear. 

Early  in  June  he  sat  one  morning  late  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  reading  the  papers  and  letters  of  the  day,  and  lingered 
more  leisurely  over  them  than  was  his  wont  of  late.  His  com- 
manding figure  was  arrayed  in  a  fashionable  dressing-gown  of 
flowered  crimson,  his  feet  in  gay  slippers,  which  rested  indo- 
lently upon  an  ottoman.  So  richly  was  he  surrounded  by 
almost  effeminate  luxuries,  that  he  rarely  escaped  the  imputation 
of  dandyism  :  however,  his  habits  seemed  to  forbid  the  charac- 
teristic. His  literary  tastes  were  denoted  in  the  books  and 
periodicals  which  filled  the  shelves  and  table  of  the  adjoining 
library,  and  his  passion  for  music  in  the  exquisitely  toned 
instrnments  that  showed  him  an  amateur  in  the  science.  The 
delicately-perfumed  handkerchief,  and  elegant  fabrics  which 
composed  his  apparel,  were  but  the  suitable  adorning  of  the 
gentleman  ;  his  character  was  little  biased  by  the  essentials 
of  his  toilette,  and  the  dignity  of  the  mau  not  lessened  by  the 
luxury  that  seemed  his  natural  element. 

His  engagements,  absorbing  as  they  were,  (Jid  not,  however, 
exclude  him  from  the  society  of  the  fashionable  and  gay,  whom 
he  frequently  sought  in  the  saloons  of  the  wealthy  and  distin- 
guished, where  in  the  promenade  and  tete  d-teie,  he  bore  from 
many  younger  competitors  for  the  smiles  of  beauty  the  palm  of 
the  accomplished  courtier. 

While  laying  aside  his  letters  as  he  rose  to  prepare  for  the 
business  of  the  day,  his  eye  rested  upon  a  little  envelope  which 
he  had  laid  aside  more  than  a  year  ago.  He  took  it  from  a 
drawer,  and,  with  something  akin  to  a  pang,  opened  it.  It 
contained  a  long  beautiful  tress  of  hair,  now  waving  as  soft  and 
bright  as  when  it  lay  on  the  brow  of  Flora.  AVith  a  smothered 
feeling  of  mingled  sorrow  and  grief  he  looked  at  it  intently, 
and  carefully  placed  it  in  a  safer,  more  secluded  place. 


Isoka'sChild.  81 

"  Can  I  ever  hope  to  find,"  he  thought,  "  such  guilelessness 
of  heart,  such  loveHness  of  person  in  an  accomplished  woman 
of  society  as  poor  Flora  had — one  that  J  can  adore  as  I  did 
her,  and  yet  show  to  the  world  with  pride  ;  one  whose  family 
will  be  lionored  by  my  children,  and  on  whose  birth  no  stain  of 
humiliation  rests  ?"  These  queries  passed  through  the  mind  of 
Louis  Clarendon  at  the  age  of  thirty  years.  His  attention 
was  soon  arrested  by  the  presentation  of  a  letter.  As  he  took 
it  from  the  servant,  the  handwriting  for  a  moment  puzzled  him, 
but  a  perusal  of  its  contents  betrayed  the  writer  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman whom  he  had  met  several  years  before.  He  pon- 
dered on  the  note,  which  contained  a  request  from  Mr. 
Livingston,  of  Villacora,  on  the  Hudson,  to  visit  him  at  his 
cottage,  at  his  earliest  convenience,  on  a  matter  of  business. 

Mr.  Clarendon  recalled  immediately  to  his  remembrance  the 
stately  Colonel,  and  also  recollected  his  little  daughter  who 
was  with  him  at  the  time  he  met  him  ten  years  previous  at 
Cape  May.  He  w^ondered  if  her  youth  had  fulfilled  the 
promise  of  her  childhood,  but  came  to  the  conclusion  that  if 
reared  in  such  retirement  she  must  be  as  fresh  as  a  milk- 
maid, and  without  more  cultivation  than  a  white  clover  from 
her  father's  field  patch. 

With  this  equivocal  compliment  on  the  charms  of  the  young 
hidy,  Mr.  Clarendon  drew  his  white  fingers  through  his  profuse 
dark  locks,  and  gave  a  glance  at  the  mirror  opposite  him,  quite 
satisfied  with  the  reflection,  considering  that  he  contrasted 
favorably  with  most  of  his  contemporaries.  Young  he  was, 
whatever  his  years,  and  possessed  qualities  which  made  him, 
perhaps,  perennial  in  the  gay  circles,  where  year  after  year  he 
had  shone  a  fixed  star. 

After  passing  the  morning  at  his  ofQce,  Mr.  Clarendon  par- 
took of  an  early  dinner,  and  proceeded  to  the  shore  of  the 
Hudson.  A  short  sail  brought  him  to  the  landing,  from  which 
easy  access  was  made  to  the  cottage  of  Colonel  Livingston. 
After  the  bustle  of  the  city,  the  serenity  of  the  country  was 
grateful  to  his  senses,  each  tree  and  object  attracting  his  eye, 
from  tlie  shade  of  the  quivering  poplar  and  the  tall  majestic 
elm,  to  the  graceful  willow  as  it  bent  arching  over  the  silvery 
w^aters,  that  were  long  in  view,  as  he  drove  onward  towards 
the  dwelling  he  sought.  He  found  the  Colonel's  cottage 
densely  shaded,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  lilacs,  roses,  and 
freshly-blown  mock  orange,  delicious  as  garden  paths. 


82  I  S  O  E  A'  S      C  II  I  L  D  . 

As  he  entered  beneath  the  shade  of  old  chestnuts,  which 
overhung  the  wicker  gate,  he  involuntarily  lingered  to  inhale 
leisurely  the  aromatic  suiell  of  green  things.  The  Colonel 
came  on  to  the  piazza  to  greet  him,  and  welcomed  him  as  an 
old  friend.  The  former  had  altered  much  in  ten  years,  and  in 
the  stern,  dejected  countenance  of  the  man  he  now  saw,  he 
could  scarcely  recognize  the  -affable,  elegant  Edward  Livings- 
ton, whose  society  was  once  so  much  courted  by  those  around 
him.  Deferred  hope  since  then  had  literally  made  sick  the  dis- 
appointed heir  ;  and  furrows  were  traced  where  once  gleamed 
smoothly  the  polish  of  early  manhood. 

"  I  am  much  indebted  fur  your  promptness,"  said  the  latter, 
as  he  extended  his  hand  to  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  I  am  gratified  with  the  summons,"  replied  the  visitor. 
*'  Your  residence  is  very  attractive.  It  is  some  years  since  we 
have  met,  and  I  am  glad  to  renew  the  acquaintance.  You  are 
associated  with  some  very  pleasant  recollections." 

"  I  remember  you,  sir,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  and  rumor  has 
since  made  better  the  acquaintance." 

*'  Your  place  is  really  lovely,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 
looking  about  him,  as  they  proceeded  towards  the  house, 
"  Ratiier  cold  here  in  winter,  1  suppose  ?" 

**  I  am  accustomed  to  it,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  though  our 
heavy  snows  are  not  so  welcome  to  me  as  to  my  daughter. 
She  loves  them  like  a  Laplander  ;  and  would  like  a  reindeer 
for  her  steed.  The  day  is  pleasant  ;  suppose  we  look  about 
before  we  hold  our  conference." 

It  was  a  golden  afternoon,  and  so  the  birds  thought,  if  their 
music  could  bespeak  their  gladness.  Nature  was  in  her  rich- 
est June  robe  ;  and  joyous  as  beauty  in  her  prime.  The  flow- 
ers, the  air,  the  suashiue,  and  jewelled  insects,  formed  a  halo 
of  brilliancy.  An  avenue  of  tall  trees  waved  their  strong 
arms  in  the  breeze, — affording  a  delicious  shade  to  its  gra- 
velled pathway. 

On  one  side  of  the  cottage,  a  green  lawn  sloped  to  the  river, 
while  through  the  giant  branches  of  the  oak  and  elm  was  seen 
a  view  of  the  majestic  Hudson — the  distant  peaks  of  the  High- 
lands being  visible,  tiirough  an  occasional  opening^.- 

It  was  approaching  evening.  Tiie  wild  rose  of  snmmer  shed 
its  perfume  on  the  air,  and  the  thickets  and  hedges,  near  by, 
were  overrunning  with  emerald  leaves  and  luxuriant  flowers. 
The  snow  berry  with  its  waxen  frqit  hung  in  rich  clusters  on 


Isoka'sChild.  83 

bushes,  green  as  the  first  shoots  of  the  evergTeen  ;  and  no^y 
and  then  studduig  the  fohage  glittered  the  bright  twigs  of  the 
silver  tree,  whose  graceful  leaves  trerabl^d  in  the  summer 
wind.  Biitterflies  winged  in  the  sunshiue, — the  black-bird 
darted  from  the  bushes,  and  the  mellow  note  of  the  thrush 
came  like  a  flute  upon  the  air. 

Colonel  Livingston  wandered  through  every  rustic  path  with 
his  visitor  ;  and  gradually  became  inspired  with  the  cheerful- 
ness of  his  guest.  The  latter  secretly  hoped  to  see  somewhere 
on  the  grounds  the  little  girl  whom  he  had  frolicked  with  as  a 
child  ;  and  in  every  green  opening  where  a  partridge  might 
have  made  egress,  he  looked  for  something  small  and  fairy- 
like,— forgetting  the  progress  of  time  since  he  had  held  the  lit- 
tle Cora  on  his  knee.  He  felt  the  influence  of  the  charming 
country  scene  ;  but  the  radiance  of  earth,  the  blue  tints  of 
water  and  sky,  were  all  unsatisfying.  Something  more  beau- 
tiful was  essential  to  the  landscape.  But  the  daisy  he  sought 
bloomed  nearer  than  he  thought.  Cora  Livingston  was 
unmindful  of  her  father  or  his  visitor  ;  and  sat  in  the  trellised 
doorway,  training  a  pet  canary  bird,  which  rewarded  her 
caressing  attentions  with  low  chirping,  that  seemed  to  delight 
her,  as  she  turned  her  head  towards  the  shoulder  on  which  it 
momentarily  perched.  She  then  coaxed  it  upon  her  linger, 
and  put  its  little  bill  to  her  red  lips,  laughing  merrily  at 
the  freedom  of  her  favorite.  She  was  dressed  in  a  rustic 
garb,  with  a  white  sun  bonnet,  and  blue,  airy  dress  ;  yet  the 
bird's  music,  which  now  rose  clear  and  sweet,  was  unheeded, — 
for  he  had  caught  a  view  of  the  delicate  cheek,  and  sunny 
brown  ringlets,  that  seemed  to  disdain  their  light  covering. 
Ho  looked  silently  and  intently  upon  the  sweet,  young  face, 
while  her  father  discoursed  on  agriculture, — she  being  wholly 
unconscious  of  a  stranger's  proximity  or  observation.  It  w^s 
now  lighted  with  a  smile  of  girlish  fondness,  and  her  lips  parted 
with  delight  and  triumph,  as  she  listened  to  the  first  warbie  of 
her  bird.  Mr.  Clarendon  well  rememb&red  th<^  litfele  Cora, 
whom  he  had  seen  years  since,  on  the  sea-shore,  and  had 
thought  her  then  a  singularly  beautiful  child  ;  her  face  often 
recurred  to  his  memory,  and  if  he  ever  pictured  a  cherub  to 
his  fancy,  it  seemed  to  come  in  the  guise  of  little  Cora  Living- 
ston, He  remembered,  too,  bow  be  loved  to  tease  her,  to 
excite  her  childish  waywardness,  and  the  pettish  airs  that  over 
indulgence  gave  rise  to  ;  but  ten  years  had  nearly  obliterated 


84:  Isora's    Child. 

the  vision  ;  and  but  for  her  father's  application,  she  might 
never  have  been  recalled  to  his  remembrance.  But  now  the 
child  had  vanished  ;  and  in  her  place  stood  an  elegant,  simply- 
attired  figure,  in  the  perfection  of  youthful  womanhood.  He 
knew  that  he  now  saw  the  same, — for  the  golden  hues  that 
played  in  the  little  Cora's  soft  carls  still  lingered  on  the  brow 
of  the  maiden  ;  and  in  the  deep  bine  of  the  upraised  eyes,  he 
now  saw  the  little  fairy  of  the  beach. 

Mr.  Clarendon  replied  with  courtesy  to  Colonel  Livingston  ; 
the  growth  of  buckwheat  and  flax,  losing,  meanwhile,  no  seem- 
ing observation,  though  his  wandering  eye  was  roving  in  the 
direction  of  a  sweeter  blossom  than  Yillacora  had  yet  furnished 
him.  After  a  suitable  pause,  the  admirinof  guest  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  Colonel  towards  the  young  lady,  and  inquired 
if  she  was  his  daughter.  The  father  replied  in  the  affirmative, 
and  then  turned  the  eye  of  his  visitor  to  a  young  nursery  of 
peach  trees  in  the  distance,  which  he  proposed  tliey  should 
examine.  Mr.  Clarendon  saw  a  richer  peach  bloom  nearer 
by,  but  patiently  indulged  the  Colonel's  adoration  of  his  young 
trees,  and  turned  off  into  another  path,  casting  inward  anathe- 
mas upon  all  fruit-growers.  Through  the  branches  under 
which  he  passed,  the  floating  figure  of  blue  was  apparent, 
though  now  it  seemed  wandering  like  himself ;  and  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  charm  of  the  golden-haired  vision  was  enhanced. 
But  grafts,  young  suckers,  and  shoots  had  to  be  looked  at  and 
discussed  ;  and  unw^eariedly  w^re  the  varieties  exhibited,  until 
Mr.  Clarendon  had  paid  the  penalty  of  his  readily  professed 
enthusiasm  for  such  treasures  of  the  soil.  But  after  reddening 
his  eyes  upon  a  regiment  of  labels,  and  spoiling  his  delicate 
kids  in  fingering  the  bark  of  as  many  leafless  saphngs,  his 
afflictions  were  at  an  end,  and  there  now  seemed  a  prospect  of 
looking  within.  He  had  approached  the  })iazza,  where  there 
seemed  another  chance  for  a  sight  of  the  bird  and  its  mistress, 
but  instead  of  blue  eyes,  red  lips,  and  golden  tresses,  there 
stood  within  view,  Mrs.  Jonson,  in  bombazet,  with  "a  frizette 
and  worsted  work.  She  was  still  at  work  upon  the  horns  of 
the  ambiguous  animal,  and  it  seemed  an  everlasting  task  to 
create  the  resemblance  intended  on  canvas.  But  Mrs.  Jonson 
had  only  looked  out  to  see  who  could  be  coming  ;  and  of 
course  not  to  be  seen,  much  less  to  fill  the  place  of  the  young 
girl  who  had  vanished  ;  yet  just  as  she  encountered  the 
searching  eyes  of  the  visitor,  a  peacock  came  upon  the  piazza^ 


Child.  85 

like  herself,  uninvited — and  both,  after  makinf^  a  brief  display 
of  their  expansive  capabilities,  soraewhaf  fluttered  at  the 
advent  of  the  visitors,  strutted  off  together  under  full  canvas. 

Mr.  Clarendon  seemed  doomed  to  disappointment,  and  fear- 
ing that  business  matters  would  soon  engross  the  Colonel,  and 
bent  upon  seeing  the  bird  and  the  beauty,  he  suggested  to  the 
heartless  parent  who  seemed  so  regardless  of  the  latter,  "  that 
his  daughter  must  have  changed  much  the  last  ten  years  "  A 
very  natural  supposition,  though  possessing  little  novelty  to 
the  father  of  his  ripening  charge.  He  assented,  however,  and 
inquired  if  she  had  not  just  left  the  piazza.  The  visitor 
having  seen  little  but  the  fat  woman  in  bombazet,  and  a 
peacock,  was  shocked  at  the  Colonel's  bad  eyesight,  and  more 
at  his  absence  of  mind. 

Still  there  was  hope — he  intended  to  stay  to  tea — so  walk- 
ing within  doors,  he  seated  himself  in  one  of  the  fragrant 
parlors,  which  gave  evidence  of  the  abode  of  some  fairy  inhabi- 
tant. Here  the  Colonel  continued  his  discussion  of  the  growth 
of  his  fruit,  which  now  had  turned  upon  the  merits  of  his 
strawberry  crop,  which  led  on  to  raspberries,  and  finally  closed 
on  cherries.  The  doors  were  constantly  opening,  but  some- 
times it  was  the  dog,  and  sometimes  the  cat  that  slid  in  with 
an  "  at  home  "  air  ;  then  the  cook  would  put  in  her  woolly 
head,  on  the  top  of  which  perched  a  turban,  but  the  whites 
of  her  eyes  disappearing,  the  visitor  in  despair  turned  towards 
another  opening  in  the  distance,  but  naught  was  there  dis- 
cernible, but  the  fat  lady  with  a  small  plate  of  something, 
which  might  be  a  dclicaie  roll  of  butter,  or  a  spare  wing  of 
a  chicken,  which  she  thought  would  be  nice  for  a  lunch,  with 
a  pickle,  towards  bed-time. 

Whatever  it  was,  turn  whither  he  would,  the  bombazet 
lady  was  visible,  though  the  picture  was  seldom  in  repose. 

The  berries,  and  matters  of  the  day,  had  been  discussed  ; 
and  the  Colonel  made  comfortable  by  very  respectable-looking 
tea-table  preparations,  owing  to  Mrs.  Jonson's  ingenuity  and 
prudence  in  saving  delicacies,  which  she  thought  could  not  bet- 
ter be  produced  than  on  the  present  occasion.  She  bustled 
around  v/ith  great  enthusiasm,  being  strongly  impressed  wnth 
the  gentility -of  the  visitor,  from  his  general  appearance.  She 
became  as  impatient  as  Mr.  Clarendon  for  ]\Iiss  Cora's  return  ; 
and  looked  out  of  every  window,  and  every  door  ;  and  cross- 
ing  the   piazza,  finally    went    to   the   gate  ;  and    was   much 


S6  Isoka'sChild. 

relieved,  as  tea  was  waiting  for  the  young  lady,  to  see  her 
coming  homewards — though  her  progress  was  somewhat 
retarded  by  the  engrossing  company  of  a  young  gentleman, 
who  suddenly  disappeared,  when  she  came  up  the  avenue  alone, 
with  her  sun-bonnet  in  her  hand. 

The  Colonel,  too,  had  begun  to  be  fidgetty,  and  brightened 
as  much  as  the  rest  as  she  gaily  stepped  into  the  parlor,  while 
she  cried  out,  "Papa,  have  I  kept  tea  waiting?" 

**  My  daughter,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  Mr.  Clarendon." 

"  I  shall  hardly  greet  Miss  Cora  as  a  stranger/'  said  the 
gentleman,  rising,   "  though  she  may  not  remember  me." 

Cora  was  sur])rised,  but  with  grace  and  self-possession 
accepted  the  hand  of  Mr  Chirendon,  then  quietly  laying  down 
her  iiowers,  looked  half-timidly,  half-inquiringly,  in  the  face  of 
him  who  addressed  her.  She  was  soinewliat  taller  than  he 
had  supposed  her,  at  first  sight,  but  her  refined,  aristocratic 
style  of  beauty  cliarmed  him  ;  and  the  little  rustic  that  he 
had  pictured  vanished  in  the  graceful  vision  that  Cora  pre- 
sented. 

But  her  grace  bad  about  it  the  simplicity  of  the  child, — it 
seemed  dignity  inborn,  not  cultivated, — as  natural  to  her  as 
the  lily's  motion,  waving  in  the  summer's  wind,  and  rearing  its 
proud  snowy  petals  with  queenly  exaltation.  The  hue  of  her 
cheek  slightly  deepened,  but  her  complexion  was  more  purely 
White  than  rosy,  though  excitement  at  times  made  her  bril- 
liant. Ordinary  incidents  seldom  moved  her, — she  was  play- 
ful, and  sometimes  wild,  but  when  she  was  stirred  with  deep 
emotion,  it  was  betrayed  little  by  outward  agitation. 

Lights  came  in  immediately,  with  Mrs  Jonson  for  standard- 
bearer,  who  never  looked  more  majestically  than  when  she 
extended,  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  the  Colonel,  two  bronzed 
candelabras,  each  brancli  containing  four  sp^^rni  candles,  fur- 
nished for  the  occasion,  which  (it  being  a  summer  evening) 
appeared  rather  superfluous. 

But  they  could  not  be  removed  without  too  much  rustling 
of  bombazet,  and  as  they  served  to  show  off  Cora  with  better 
effect,  Mr.  Clarendon  did  not  feel  unpleasantly  dazzled. 

"Then,  you  do  not  remember  me.  Miss  Cora,"  said  Mr.  Cla^ 
rcndon,  "  when  I  picked  up  shells  for  you  on  the  sea-beach, 
and  you  as  wild  as  a  forest  fawn  ?" 

Cora  seemed  momentarily  puzzled,  but  ingenuously  said — • 
"  And  didn't  you  give  me  lobster  horns  for  beads,  and  help 


Isora'sChild.  87 

me  strincr   tliem  ?     Ah  !  I  remember  you,  now,  Mr.   Claren- 
don !" 

"  And  I  believe  I  teased  you  some  in  those  days  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  said  you  liked  to  see  me  pout,"  replied  Cora, 
laughing.  "  And  then  you  would  clip  off  my  curls.  I  have 
not  forgotten  anything  connected  with  the  beacli — we  were 
so  happy  there."' 

"  I  see,  Miss  Cora,  that  I  have  much  to  atone  for,  but  some 
fairy  has  restored  the  tresses,  fortunately.  Pray  where  is  the 
bird  you  were  training  this  afternoon  ?  I  feel  quite  an  interest 
in  his  education." 

Cora  smiled  with  gratification,  and  running  to  a  cage,  took 
from  it  the  little  yellow  ball,  now  rolled  up,  with  its  head 
under  its  wing,  and  held  it  to  her  bosom,  while  she  murmured, 
"  Minnie  has  been  very  happy  to-day.  I  have  half  wished  to 
be  a  bird  myself,  it  has  been  such  a  glad  day  for  the  wliole 
troop." 

"  Sometimes,"  said  the  gallant  gentleman,  "  one  would  hardly 
object  to  transmigration.     Yours  seems,  at  least,  well  off." 

"  You  would  like  to  be  an  eagle,  1  suppose,"  she  replied, 
playfully  ;  as  she  seated  herself  at  the  table,  while  her  father 
and  his  guest  followed  the  movement. 

"  Not  the  Bald  Eagle,  I  trust,"  said  the  gentleman  ;  accept- 
ing his  cup  from  one  of  the  prettiest  hands  that  ever  turned 
the  head  of  an  admirer. 

'*  I  suppose  the  aspirations  of  such  a  bird  are  so  lofty," 
replied  Cora,  half-blushing,  "  that  feathers  are  of  as  little  con- 
sequence to  him,  as  a  bald  head  to  a  wise  man." 

"  You  seem  to  be  ornithological  to-night,"  interposed  the 
Colonel,  putting  his  fork  in  the  toast.  "  Perhaps  Mr  Claren- 
don would  prefer  to  be  Minerva's  bird,  if  he  thinks  of  taking 
wings." 

"Thank  you,  Colonel,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon.  "I  am  afraid 
Miss  Cora  would  hardly  welcome  myowlship  about  her  haunts; 
so  when  I  transmigrate,  I  shall  certainly,  out  of  compliment  to 
her  taste,  seek  an  eyrie  nest." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  won- 
derful relaxation  of  his  muscles,  "  that  I  should  be  obliged  to 
find  one  for  my  daughter,  she  is  so  fond  of  rocky  battlements. 
She  has  even  been  so  romantic  as  to  fancy  it  would  be  beauti- 
ful to  sleep  out  of  doors,  starry  nights,  with  the  night-hawks 
and  buzzards.     Don't  shake  your  head,  Cora,  you  know  you 


88  Isoka'sChild. 

have  been  just  such  a  simpleton.  Now  I  have  always  told 
her,  that  I  would  take  the  down  of  the  bird,  if  she  would  be 
content  with  the  wing  !" 

"  I  think  the  eagle  has  turned  into  a  goose,  papa,"  said 
Cora,  laughing  ;  "  and  that  you  are  implying  that  my  flights 
are  certainly  lowly.  My  father  thinks,  Mr.  Clarendon,  that  I 
am  most  absurdly  romantic,  because  I  like  out-door  life  so 
well." 

"  He  knows,  Miss  Cora,  that  it  would  be  much  harder  to 
fancy  him  with  a  pair  of  wings,  than  yourself,  and  so  he  is 
envious  enough  to  want  to  clip  your  feathers.  And  as  we  are 
neither  of  us  given  much  to  soaring,  we  must  be  pardoned  for 
trying  to  keep  you  on  our  own  level." 

"  Don't  forget,  my  daughter,"  interrupted  the  Colonel, 
"  that  we  are  all  material,  at  least  to-night  ;  and  that  Mr. 
Clarendon  might  like  another  cup  of  tea.  Your  walk  has 
somewliat  disturbed  your  usual  equanimity.  You  have  cer- 
tainly given  me  green  tea  instead  of  black." 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  sir,"  said  Cora,  blushing  more  than 
there  seemed  occasion  for  ;  but  Mr.  Clarendon  was  puzzled  to 
know  whether  her  cheek  reddened  at  the  blunder  she  had 
made,  or  at  any  associations  with  her  tardy  return  home. 
Another  cup  of  tea  was  given  her  father,  and  this  time  it  was 
of  the  right  color  ;  and  Mr.  Clarendon  observed  the  lady-like 
grace  with  which  she  made  the  exchange.  He  could  not 
account  for  it,  but  he  thought  he  had  never  known  so  refresh- 
ing a  meal  ;  but  whether  it  was  country  air,  his  stroll  about 
the  grounds,  or  tlie  presence  and  inspiration  of  his  sweet  young 
hostess,  that  caused  his  exhilaration  of  spirits,  it  was  difficult 
to  divine.     It  might  have  been  the  effect  of  the  whole. 

Mrs.  Jonson,  too,  had  enjoyed  herself — for  she  had  taken  a 
seat  under  a  tree,  during  the  tea-drinking,  and  being  dressed 
"  old  timey  "  knew  no  reason  why  she  should  be  always  in  the 
background.  And  as  the  door  of  the  tea-room  looked  upon 
the  garden,  she  knew  that  she  should  come  in  for  a  frontis- 
piece. So  the  "  animal-cnly,"  as  she  called  her  worsted-figure, 
was  likely  to  progress,  and  then,  too,  she  was  conveniently 
situated  to  know  when  tea  was  over.  She  now  and  then 
looked  up  to  see  how  tlie  pine-apple  held  out,  and  if  there 
would  be  enough  for  next  time,  and  almost  wished  she  had  orna- 
mented the  table  with  onions  ;  but  on  the  whole,  thought  the 
repast  looked  respectable — especially  the  sperm  candles. 


Child.  89 

She  had  now  a  good  opportuiiity  to  see  as  well  as  to  be 
seen,  and  was  astonished  that  Miss  Cora  sliouldn't  liave  put 
on  her  new  silli,  instead  of  wearing-  a  flimsy  muslin,  off  her 
slioulders — she  might,  at  least,  have  had  on  sleeves,  instead  of 
pouring  tea  in  bare  arms  ;  then,  too,  her  hair  was  falling  about 
her  ears,  instead  of  being  put  up  in  pntf-combs.  it  was  her 
private  opinion,  that  she  looked  like  a  fright.  And  as  Mrs. 
Jonson  stitched  on,  she  wondered  who  that  young  man  was 
that  came  to  the  gate  with  her  It  was  no  one  she  knew  ; 
and  she  thought  it  would  be  well  enough  to  keep  a  good  look- 
out for  strangers.  How  did  she  know  but  he  might  be  a 
robber  in  disguise — or  that  he  might  be  older  than  he  looked, 
and  took  that  sly  way  to  see  her,  knowing  that  she  was  staying 
at  the  Colonel's.  So  the  widow  had  her  private  thoughts,  and 
they  were  a  great  consolation  to  lier,  considering  she  had  but 
little  el.se. 

But  the  frontispiece  was  likely  to  be  broken  up,  as  the 
bell  rang  in  the  tea-room  ;  and  it  was  her  time  to  eat  some- 
thing, considering  it  was  late  enough,  and  she  liked  to  go 
in  before  the  company  scattered  ;  perhaps,  too,  the  lights 
might  want  snuffiug,  and  she  always  liked  to  be  in  season — 
so  at  the  first  tinkle  of  the  silver,  Mrs.  Jonson  appeared, 
but  having,  in  her  absence  of  mind,  forgotten  to  put  down  her 
worsted-work,  laid  it  on  the  mantel-piece,  first  giving  it  an 
oblong  squint  through  her  hands.  Mr.  Clarendon  had  taken 
an  aversion,  perhaps  unreasonably,  to  the  widow,  owing  to  her 
first  appearance  on  the  piazza,  when  he  was  looking  for  Cora  ; 
and  was  now  amazed  at  her  cool  impudence,  and  wondered 
that  the  Colonel  kept  such  a  flaunting  concern  about  his  estab- 
lishment. She  seemed  certainly  out  of  keeping  with  every- 
thing else,  and  the  Colonel  himself  always  felt  asthmatic,  he 
knew  not  why,  when  she  was  about.  She  disturbed  everybody 
(for  the  cook  and  gardener  hated  her)  but  Cora,  who  felt  sorry 
for  her,  since  she  had  told  her  all  about  her  having  "  lived  in 
style,  and  becoming  reduced,  with  nothing  to  sympathize 
wfth." 

But  Mrs.  Jonson  knew  nothing  of  Mr.  Clarendon's  opinion 
of  her,  nor  of  the  Colonel's  want  of  breath,  so  she  leisurely 
examined  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  scraped  the  preserve 
plates,  setting  the  main  dish  out  of  the  cook's  sight,  as  **  nig- 
gers" she  knew  always  "liked  sweet  things,"  and  besides 
such  **sass''  made  them  impudent.     "The  more  they  got  the 


90  IsoRx\.'s    Child. 

iiore  they  ^\  anted  ;"  and  it  gave  her  time  to  examine  the  visi- 
tor's watch  seal  at  a  distance,  seeing  she  couldn't  see  it  nearer, 
[f  she  could  only  have  had  a  chance,  she  would  have  hunched 
Cora,  and  told  the  child  to  "  fix  up,"  but  before  the  opportu- 
aity  came,  the  "  company,"  father,  and  daug'hter  had  gone 
3n  the  piazza,  from  which  the  Colonel  drew  his  reluc- 
tant visitor  towards  his  study.  The  conference  was,  however, 
jihort,  and  seemingly  gratifying  to  the  Colonel,  who  took  a 
retired  seat  to  smoke,  leaving  Mr.  Clarendon  with  Cora. 
Tiiere  w;is  novelty  and  fascination  in  the  looks  and  ways  of  the 
young  girl  to  the  fastidious  connoisseur.  After  excusing  him- 
self to  the  Colonel,  he  suggested  to  Cora  that  a  walk  through 
the  garden  would  be  pleasant.  Without  embarrassment,  she 
complied  with  the  wish,  and,  in  her  playful  acquiescence, 
reminded  him  of  the  child  of  old  memory,  though  the  mature 
grace  that  subdued  her  ripened  cliarms,  forbade  any  approach 
to  his  old  familiarity  with  her. 

But  in  their  long  walk,  he  won  her  kindest  good  will  ;  he 
wounded  his  fingers  to  cull  through  the  hedge  her  favorite 
briar  blossoms, — fed  her  bird,  and  praised  her  pink-eyed  rab- 
bits and  gold-fish  ;  and  as  he  approached  the  summer-house, 
gratified  her  whim  of  securing  a  garland  of  clematis  blossoms, 
to  adorn  a  flower-vase  which  she  designed  for  a  parlor  orna- 
ment. He  sympathized  with  ^  her  in  her  enthusiasm  for  all 
beautiful  things,  and  beheld  in  her  delicate  aristocratic  beauty, 
as  she  walked  by  his  side,  with  queenly  dignity,  his  ideal  of  a 
wife.  Still  to  him,  Cora  Livingston  was  but  a  child  in  years, 
and  he  dared  not  entertain  a  thought  of  her  in  that  relation. 
But  the  more  he  conversed  with  her,  the  more  he  was  amazed 
at  her  maturity  of  character,  and  the  depth,  feeling,  and 
poetry  of  her  nature.  He  discovered  that  though  like  a  child 
she  could  still  chase  a  golden  bee  or  butterfly,  and  wandered 
in  wild  country  paths,  among  liedges  and  brambles,  for  flowers 
and  berries,  that  she  never  lost  sight  of  one  great  aim  in  her 
enjoyments — the  attainment  of  some  new  idea,  from  her  obser- 
vation of  tlie  beautiful  and  curious  ;  and  that  mere  excitement 
constituted  not  all  the  charm  of  her  wild  wanderings. 

"  What  do  you  do,"  said  he,  "  with  all  those  little  gems  of 
leaves  and  buds  you  have  gathered  there  ?  as  soon  as  they  are 
withered,  they  are  nothing  but  rubbish.  Is  it  not  better  to 
leave  them  on  the  stem,  and  then  come  daily  and  look  at  fresh 
ones  ?"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 


I  S  O  R  A  '  S      C  II  I  L  D  .  91 

**  Ah,  but  a  microscope  will  bring  out  such  new  beauties,'' 
Cora  replied,  "such  exquisite  touches  and  hues,  as  the  natural 
eye  cannot  see,  and  the  more  I  revel  in  such  sweets,  the 
more  I  love  nature — and  wonder  at  the  Power  that  made 
them." 

"  I  have  seen  wild  flowers  too,"  said  Clarendon,  "  that 
would  repay  me  for  thorny  labor." 

"  I  supposed  that  you  would  only  like  something  very 
rare — a  night-blooming-  ceres,  or  the  rare-blossoming  aloe." 

"  Yes — the  flower  must  be  rare  that  pleases  me — but  it 
must  be  simple  and  fresh  too.  Such  an  one,  I  have  flrst  seen 
to-day." 

Mr.  Clarendon  sought  the  expression  of  the  bine  eyes,  that 
looked  truthfully  upon  him,  but  he  saw  that  the  owner  of  them 
was  nnused  to  the  language  of  gallantry. 

"  In  our  garden  ?"  said  she,  pleased  with  the  idea  that  they 
possessed  such  a  treasure. 

Cora's  artlessness,  and  freedom  from  vanity,  increased  Mr. 
Clarendon's  admiration  ;  and  he  did  not  repeat  an  acknowledg- 
ment th:it  he  saw  was  lost  upon  her.  He  was  contented  with 
her  coiifldence  in  him  ;  and  her  free  and  playful  address,  so 
unmingled  with  coquetry  or  love  of  admiration.  He  looked 
at  the  wild  sunny  curls  floating  on  the  evening  breeze — at  the 
coral  lips  that  parted,  either  to  smile,  or  to  close  with  serenity, 
into  as  sweet  a  bow  as  Cupid  ever  carried  ;  at  the  dimples 
that  nestled  in  the  loveliest  cheek  that  fair  hair  ever  shaded, 
and  half  believed  the  cherub  child  had  come  again  on  his 
vision  ;  but  the  intelligence  that  beamed  in  every  glance,  the 
feeling  and  tendernees  that  the  sweet  mouth  expressed,  and  the 
rounded  perfection  of  a  form,  swelling  with  graceful  propor 
tions,  revealed  the  beautiful  intellectual  woman. 

Words  of  gallantry  were  hushed  on  his  lips — coquetry 
passed  from  his  glance — the  purity  of  Cora  Livingston  awed 
him,  and  made  him  crave  a  treasure,  that  seemed  each  moment 
as  far  from  him  as  the  bright  evening  star,  that  rose  above 
his  head.  The  evening  was  serenely  lovely — the  dew  was 
falling  gently  on  the  flowers,  that  sent  up  their  balmy  perfume, 
and  the  dying  crimson  light  in  the  west  sti'il  tinged  the  bed 
where  the  sun  had  gloriously  sunk — making  such  a  twilight  as 
angels  might  love  to  gaze  upon. 

Both  wanderers  were  loth  to  return.  After  an  hour's 
hsence,  they  remembered  that  the  Colonel  was  alone  ;  and 


92  I  S  O  K  a' S      C  II  IL  D. 

that  the  call  within  was  imperative.  They  had  been  throui^h 
the  garden  ;  and  in  every  path  where  Cora  fancied  their 
visitor  wonld  like  to  rove,  and  in  her  choice  of  spots  she  had 
had  a  sole  eye  to  his  gratification.  But  Mr.  Clarendon  had 
known  little  of  grass  of  shrubbery,  and  when  he  returned 
could  not  tell  whether  he  had  trodden  on  roses  or  daisies,  but 
that  he  had  been  in  clover  he  was  fully  conscious,  and  in  the 
society  of  the  loveliest  girl  the  rays  of  the  young  moon  ever 
silvered.  He  had  urged  her  to  come  to  New  York  when  the 
autumn  leaves  began  to  fail,  and  assured  hei  *.hat  humanity 
and  vegetation  was  not  there  as  she  supposed,  dried  as 
shaker  herbs,  and  gave  her,  as  his  opinion  that  she  would 
soon  love  a  promenade  in  Broadway  better  than  in  bruising 
her  little  feet  over  country  roads. 

"  I  have  only  recently  returned  from  there,"  said  she,  much 
to  his  surprise  ;  and  when  he  found  that  Cora  had  been 
(though  but  as  a  school-girl),  in  association  with  the  most 
aristocratic  of  his  acquaintance,  and  moreover  was  nearly 
connected  with  families  of  the  highest  rank,  in  the  most 
distinguished  circles  of  New  York,  she  rose  further  in  the 
ascendant,  and  rolling  mists  came  thicker  between  her  and 
buns  elf. 

The  Colonel  was  suddenly  elevated  much  in  his  estimation  ; 
and  even  fat  Mrs.  Jonson  seemed  to  waddle  less  conse- 
quentially, and  Villacora  to  possess  enhanced  attractions. 
Mr.  Clarendon  was  decidedly  fond  of  style,  and  placed 
unbounded  importance  upon  position,  and  what  he  called 
respectability  of  birth.  He  was,  therefore,  the  more  acquies- 
cent to  the  proposal  of  the  Colonel  to  have  another  inter- 
view, on  ascertaining  that  the  former  did  not  carry  himself 
60  lordly  without  a  pedestal  to  base  upon  Mr.  Clarendon 
soon  convinced  the  latter  that  he  was  helpless  without  his  aid  ; 
and  impressed  him  with  his  ability  to  promote  his  interests, 
while  Colonel  Livingston  confided  to  him  his  tale  of  wrongs, 
and  his  hope  of  finally  recovering  his  lost  property.  The  oily 
tongue  of  the  counsellor  removed  all  fancied  obstacles — diffi- 
culties vanished  as  he  plausibly  talked,  and  the  sunshine  of 
prosperity  seemed  already  to  gild  his  path,  while  his  daughter 
was  again  the  heiress  of  her  grandfather's  estate.  While  they 
conversed,  the  time  rapidly  sped  away  ;  and  at  tlie  earnest 
solicitation  of  the  Colonel,  Mr.  Clarendon  concluded  to  pass 
the  night  at  Yilhicora.     Cora  had  been  in  the  habit  of  sing- 


Isoka'sChild.  93 

tug  and  playing  for  her  father  before  he  retired  ;  and  though 
she  knew  that  she  played  but  indifferently,  she  did  not  regard 
criticism,  but  ever  gratified  him  with  his  evening  son»j:  under 
all  circumstances.  Mr.  Clarendon's  taste  was  highly  culti- 
vated, and  his  ear  fastidiously  nice  ;  consequently  the  simple 
melody  of  an  uncultivated  voice,  without  artistic  skill  in  the 
accompaniment,  afforded  him  little  enjoyment.  He  followed 
Cora  to  the  piano,  to  turn  her  music  leaves,  expecting  a 
brilliant  entertainment,  but  in  this  he  was  disappointed.  Her 
voice  was  clear  and  sweet,  and  some  of  her  tones  full  of  pathos, 
but  she  exhibited  none  of  the  skillful  touches  of  the  master  per- 
formers,— and  a  simple  accompaniment  to  her  song  was,  all 
that  she  undertook. 

To  her  father  she  had  sung  a  prolonged  and  "  sweet  good 
night" — and  rose  from  the  instrument,  with  an  affectionate 
smile  for  him — looking  for  no  applause  and  expecting  no  com- 
inent. 

"  Do  you  play  much  ?"    said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  iS^ot  at  all,"  replied  Cora,  without  affectation.  "  You  are 
accustomed  to  playing,  and  I  know  what  it  is,  but  I  content 
myself  with  the  very  small  demand  my  father  makes  upon  my 
powers.  I  gratify  him,  and  am  satisfied.  If  he  was  ambi- 
tious that  I  should  excel,  I  would  try  to  do  so,  but  as  an 
accomplishment,  I  have  not  sufficient  inducement  to  practice." 

"  But,  perhaps,  may  have,  some  day  ?"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 
significantly. 

"  When  the  inducHment  comes,  I  will  try,"  said  Cora,  "if  it 
is  not  too  late."  Cora  smiled  so  sweetly  that,  for  the  first 
time,  Mr.  Clarendon  thought  a  woman  bewitching,  without 
the  charm  that  the  spell  of  music  creates,  and  even  wished 
that  he  could  hear  her  song,  "  Sweet  flower,  good  night  !" 
repeated.  Why  was  it  ?  Cora  certainly  did  not  excel  as  a 
singer.  Still  he  felt  that  there  was  heart  in  all  that  she  did — 
a  motive  which  hallow^ed  the  act.  For  a  while  conversation 
ensued,  in  which  Cora  was  mostly  a  listener.  Mr.  Clarendon 
was  successful  in  any  vein  which  he  might  seek  ;  and  observing 
that  Cora  appreciated  his  entertaining  powers,  was  inspired  to 
an  unusual  effort.  Colonel  Livingston  also  aroused  from  Ins 
reserved  mood,  and  made  his  daughter  happy  by  his  cheerful- 
ness. While  they  were  engaged  in  an  animated  discussion,  the 
door  opened,  and  a  rotund  figure  appeared,  dressed  iii  white, 
with  a  well  corseted  bust,  on  the  shelf  of  which  lay  a  full- 


O-i  Isoka's    Child. 

blown  red  rose.  The  worsted-work  was  laid  aside,  and,  the 
tea  things  being  cleared  away,  Mrs.  Jonson  thought  that  the 
candles  might  want  snuffing,  or  that  a  pitcher  of  water  might 
be  acee}Uable  ;  and  so  she  concluded  that  she  would  dress  her- 
self appropriately  to  the  season,  "airy-like  for  June,"  and 
just  appear — not  exactly  as  ghosts  are  supposed  to  do, 
her  figure  forbidding  that,  but  bodily,  and,  perhaps,  usefully. 
Mrs.  Jonson  was  not  without  her  thoughts,  nor  action  either, 
and  sometimes  showed  discrimination  and  observation  beyonc 
what  was  expected  of  her,  at  least  the  Colonel  thouglit  so 
Mr.  Clarendon  saw  the  conspicuous  personage  approaching, 
and  held  up  a  newspaper  to  screen  his  face,  when  she  entereu 
the  room  with  a  sliding  step,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  notliing 
in  particular,  and  inquired,  in  a  general  way,  if  "  she  could  be 
made  in  any  way  useful  ?" 

Colonel  Livingston  was  decidedly  mortified,  and  determined 
ench  day  to  discharge  the  officious,  omnipresent,  but  well- 
intentioned,  Mrs.  Jonson,  though  Cora  was  more  amused  than 
chagrined  at  her  frequent  errands,  always  flattering  her- 
self that  M."s.  Jonson  had  made  *•  positively  her  last  appear- 
ance." 

Mrs.  Jonson  receiving  no  immediate  reply,  stood  beneath 
the  candelal)ra8,  and  graciously  smiled  on  tlie  company.  The 
Colonel,  supjiosing  that  he  had  answered  her,  asked  the  lady 
in  white,  in  no  amiable  tone,  "  What  she  wanted  ?" 

"  1  asked,  sir,"  said  she,  "  if  I  could  be  made  in  ai^y  nay 
useful  r 

Mr.  Clarendon  being  vis-d-vis  to  the  lady,  ai-ose  and  preci- 
pitately walked  towards  the  open  door,  while  Cora  quietly 
approached  her,  and  said,  "  No,  Mrs.  Jonson,  we  wisli  for 
nothing.  We  will  ring  when  you  are  wanted."  The  tone 
was  gentle;  so  tht-  reduced  lady  walked  out,  going  by  way  of 
the  piazza,  which  carried  her  past  the  windows  and  the  door 
where  Mr.  Clarendon  stood,  endeavoring  to  conceal  his  amuse- 
ment. As  she  passed  him  she  said,  "  good  evening,"  in  a  very 
amiable  manner. 

The  hour  for  retiring  came,  when  the  Colonel  remembered 
that  he  had  not  told  Mrs.  Jonson  to  see  to  the  arrangement  of 
Mr,  Clarendon's  apartment.  It  was,  therefore,  painfully 
DL'cessary  that  she  should  be  summoned,  and  the  inquiry  made 
of  her,  if  she  had  done  so.  Mrs.  Jonson,  meanwhile,  was  sit- 
ting   at    the    corner    of   the   dining-room    tai)le,   with    a    her- 


I  S  O  K  a'  S      C  H  I  L  D  .  li 

ring  and  pickled  mushroom,  waiting  for  the  bell.  Much  to  her 
satisfaction,  she  was  at  length  summoned,  though  Cora  pru- 
dently met  her  in  the  hall,  and  asked  her  if  the  gentlemau'3 
room  was  in  readiness  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied.  "I  fixed  it  before  tea;  and  was 
just  going  to  ask  him  up — but  this  warm  weather  oppresses 
me." 

"  You  needn't  speak  to  the  gentleman,  Mrs.  Jonson,"  said 
Cora,  smiling  at  the  circumference  to  which  the  housekeeper 
had  reduced  her  waist.     "  Only  give  me  a  light." 

"  His  room  is  lit.  Miss  ;  and  I'll  attend  to  him  to  the  tip  wf 
a  rose-bud,"  said  the  lady,  swallowing  the  last  mushroom. 

The  air  and  manner  of  Mrs.  Jouson,  as  she  said  this,  amused 
Cora  ;  and  she  laughed,  much  against  her  inclination,  audibly 
to  the  ears  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  I  wonder  what  amusiis  Cora,"  said  the  Colonel. 

Cora  endeavored  to  take  the  candlestick  from  the  hand  of 
Mrs.  Jonson  ;  but  the  latter  so  smilingly  opposed,  that  she 
was  compelled  to  follow  her  into  the  parlor,  to  which  she 
advanced,  with  a  courteous  nod  of  her  head,  to  the  guest, 
saying,  "  I  am  ready,  sir." 

"Shall  I  take  your  light,  madam?"  Mr.  Clarendon  ques- 
tioned. 

"  I'll  see  you  up.     Shall  I  go  ahead  ?" 

Cora  knewthat  Mrs.  Jonson  was  unmanageable  ;  and  told 
Mr.  Clarendon  that  the  latter  would  show  hira  to  his  room. 

He  therefore  bade  her  and  the  Colonel  good-night,  and 
followed  the  white  robes  up  stairs  ;  and  as  the  form  they 
encased  was  of  good  size,  Mr  Clarendon  was  pleased  to  see 
that  her  feet  and  ankles  were  fully  al)le  to  support  their  burden. 

When  she  opened  the  door  of  the  chamber,  she  stretched  it 
to  its  full  width  ;  and  after  wishing  its  occupant  "  pleasant 
dreams,"  laid  her  full-blown  rose  on  the  candlestick,  and 
inquired  "  if  she  could  do  anything  further." 

Mr.  Clarendon  closed  the  door  with  heartfelt  congratulation, 
and  looked  about  his  chamber.  It  was  evident  that  Mrs. 
Jonson  had,  indeed,  attended  to  his  wants  to  the  "tip  of  a 
ros(!-bud  ;"  for  on  his  toilet-table  stood  a  small  plate,  on  whicV 
lay  a  cold  boiled  e.gg  and  a  sprig  of  peppergrass,  while  on  thb 
opposite  end  was  a  bouquet  tied  with  a  green  ribbon.  The 
curtains  were  looped  up  each  with  a  hollyhock,  and  roses  lay 
Bcattered  on  his  pillow. 


96  I  S  O  R  a'  S      C  II  I  L  D  . 

Like  Cora,  he  could  not  suppress  a  laugh,  though  vexed 
with  anything  that  seemed  ridiculous  in  the  home  of  the 
exquisite  girl  who  had  so  fascinated  him. 

After  their  guest  had  retired,  Colonel  Livingston  asked 
Cora  to  remain  a  few  moments  while  he  talked  to  her  about 
Mrs.  Jouson. 

''My  child,"  said  he,  "I  am  much  disappointed  in  our 
housekeeper.  She  is  excessively  disagreeable — airs  in  domes- 
tics are  intolerable,  Why  really,  her  appearance  to-night  was 
highly  improper  ;  and  her  assurance  quite  unbecoming.  Can't 
you  reform  her,  my  dear  ?  She  is  conspicuous — quite  so,  in 
white — and  wears  roses  !  Something  must  be  done — she  has 
mortified  me.  I  thought  of  a  stage  actress,  with  foot-lights, 
only  they  were  above  her  head  when  she  came  in.  We  can't 
keep  her,  Cora." 

"  Oh  !  papa,"  said  Cora,  laughing,  "  it  is  so  droll  to  see  her 
so  fond  of  eating,  and  yet  so  sentimental  and  fat.  But  she 
keeps  things  in  order  ;  and  her  greatest  weakness  is  her  vanity 
and  love  of  dress.  J  don't  myself  like  upper  servants,  papa, 
they  don't  know  their  places.  But  what  can  we  do,  and  not 
offeud  her  ?     Shall  I  talk  to  her  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  talk  to  her — tell  her  to  keep  out  of  sight  until 
she  is  wanted.     How  do  you  like  Mr.  Clarendon,  Cora  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  much,  he  is  very  agreeable — excuse  me,  and  I 
will  see  what  Mrs.  Jonson  is  going  to  order  for  breakfast. 
Good-night,  dear  papa." 

T^>e  Colonel  kissed  his  daughter  affectionately,  and  re- 
tired. 

"  Come  here,"  winked  and  beckoned  the  now  unlaced  upper 
servant,  who  appeared  with  her  head  in  the  doorway,  as  she 
saw  the  Colonel  depart.  *'  Miss  Cora,  I  have  got  something 
to  tell  you.  I  found  an  egg  and  boiled  it  for  him,  and  a  taste 
of  pepper-grass,  to  sleep  on  ;  I  put  a  genteel  smell  in  his 
room  out  of  roses.  Wasn't  that  doing  it  up  like  a  cowslip, 
my  little  lady  ?" 

"  What  have  you  done,  Mrs.  Jonson  ?  Oh  !  how  could 
you  ?  What  will  he  think  of  us  T'  Then,  in  spite  of  her 
vexation,  C'ora  laughed,  till  she  cried. 

"  When  you  are  older,  Miss  Cora,"  said  Mrs.  Jonson,  "  you'll 
know  butter  how  to  put  on  the  rose-tip,  with  your  visitors. 
Why  if  I  hadn't  been  here,  there  wouldn't  have  been  any 
.<)jow  at  all." 


Isoka's    Child.  07 

"  But,  Mrs.  Jonson,  papa  doesu't  like  such  show — he  likes 
things  done  quietly  and  elegantly.  You  entirely  overdo 
matters,  Mrs.  Jonson,  papa  thinks.  And  that  it  is  best  for 
you  not  to  come  in  the  parlor  so  much,  we  both  agree, 
Mrs.  Jonson.  You  know  the  bell  will  ring  when  you  are 
wanted,  and,  another  thing,  he  does  not  like  to  have  you  dress 
so  much.'' 

''Well,  I  should  like  to  know,  Miss,  if  he  wouldn't  put  my 
nose  the  other  side  of  my  head  ? — and  turn  my  soul  and 
body  inside  out  ?  Make  a  Sister  of  Charity  out  of  me  ?  I 
think  I  should  smile  to  see  myself  in  that  condition.  Why,  I 
can  tell  you,  if  it  hadn't  a-been  for  the  way  you  said  them 
unhandsome  tilings  of  me,  I'd  have  quit  to  night." 

"  But  you  know,  Mrs.  Jonson,  we  are  not  accustomed  to 
such  ways.     The  bell  will  always  summon  you." 

"  But  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  be  tied  to  a  bell- 
rope  ?" 

"  You  know  that  is  a  part  of  your  occupation,"  said  Cora, 
sweetly. 

"Hang  the  occupation,  then — I'll  quit  before  I'll  harbor 
with  niggers." 

"That  is  not  required  of  you.  The  best  way  is  to  keep 
more  retired — and  then  you  will  please  better,"  said  Cora. 

'*  Well,  well,  don't  talk  any  more.  I  guess  I  shall  be 
as  glad  to  be  clear  of  the  parlors  as  they  is  of  me.  The  key 
is  in  the  closet  if  vou  want  a  bite.  I'm  going  to  bed  ;  heighho 
—Oh  !  Susannah  1" 

Mrs.  Jonson  sung  herself  out  of  the  room,  when  Cora 
retired. 


The  morning  was  clear  and  beautiful,  and  Mr.  Clarendon 
arose  at  early  dawn,  to  enjoy  it.  He  had  slept  well,  and 
was  in  fine  spirits.  On  throwing  open  the  lattice,  that  pre- 
sented a  view  of  the  garden,  he  was  surprised  to  see  Cora 
already  out,  and  in  conversation  with  the  gardener.  She  had 
a  tiny,  lame  chicken  in  her  hands ;  and  was  apparently  consult- 
ing him  on  his  skill  in  surgery.  The  old  man  seemed  amused 
with  her  solicitude,  but  held  the  broken  leg  of  the  wee  chick, 
while  Cora  tied  it  up ;  and  then  buried  it  in  cotton  in  a 
basket.     He  watched  her  varying  expression — her  downcast, 

5 


98  Isoka's    Child. 

pitying  look,  as  she  cooed  over  her  downy  pet  ;  and  at  lier 
smile  of  satisfaction,  as  she  phiced  it  in  its  warm  nest  ;  and 
thought  it  little  short  of  desecration,  for  her  so  to  Avaste  her 
sympathy.  He  had  never  before  thought  he  could  envy  a 
lame  chicken. 

After  the  finishing  touch  to  his  toilet,  he  proceeded  below  ; 
and  was  soon  at  her  side,  rallying  her  on  her  employment. 
Cora's  cheek  brightened  a  little,  as  he  accosted  her,  when  she 
artlessly  dilated  on  the  accident,  which  she  declared  was  all 
owing  to  an  ugly  gobbler-turkey  that  ran  over  it — upon 
which,  of  course,  Mr.  Clarendon  bestowed  his  wrath  and  dis- 
approbation. The  chicken  being  disposed  of,  Cora  led  Mr, 
Clarendon  to  the  stable,  to  see  her  pretty  riding  horse.  He 
was  amused  with  her  fond  familiarity  with  the  graceful  animal, 
that  laid  down  his  head  caressingly,  as  Cora  smoothed  his 
glossy  mane,  and  silken  neck  ;  and  was  not  satisfied  until  she 
consented  to  mount,  and  take  a  ride  with  him  before 
breakfast. 

Arrangements  were  accordingly  made  with  the  groom  ;  and 
her  father's  horse,  and  her  own,  saddled,  while  Cora  arrayed 
herself  pleasantly  for  the  exercise.  As  she  was  seldom 
thwarted,  she  thought  of  little  else  than  the  beautiful  morning, 
and  the  gambols  of  her  pretty  Robin.  Her  father  was  yet  too 
sleepy  to  demur  ;  and  was  little  conscious  of  anything,  but  a 
dreaming  idea  of  a  beaver  hat,  floating  veil,  and  a  riding 
whip,  which  together  passed  through  his  room.  The  next 
moment,  he  was  dozing,  while  his  guest,  whom  he  had  sent  for 
on  business,  was  cantering  off  beside  his  daughter — she  as 
lovely  a  typification  of  a  summer  morning,  as  Aurora  herself. 
Coquettishly  arrayed,  and  grncefully  mounted,  she  reined  in 
her  favorite  ;  and  so  fully  enraptured  the  eye  of  her  com- 
panion, that  he  had  entirely  forgiven  the  shock  she  had  given 
his  fastidious  taste,  by  mending  the  chicken's  leg.  She  was 
so  entirely  at  home  on  the  back  of  Robin,  that  he  found  his 
care  of  her  quite  unnecessary  ;  and  could  have  excused  even 
some  affectation  of  timidity  ;  but  Cora  was  so  entirely 
natural  that  his  solicitude  was  lost  upon  her. 

She  was  now  gay  and  playful  as  a  child — would  sometimes 
ride  by  his  side,  and  then  canter  gaily  away  from  hini — witb 
an  arcli  smile,  that  challenged  pursuit  ;  and  at  times  appeart'(r 
80  reckless  that  his  fears  were  much  excited.  But  alter 
seriously  urging  her  to   keep  a  slower  gait,  she  courteou^o 


Isoka's    Child.  99 

complied,  though  he  saw  that  her  exercise  was  her  chief 
amusement.  A  rain  had  recently  fallen,  and  the  woods  were 
green  and  beautiful.  The  birds  sang  merrily  in  a  wild  chorus, 
and  flitted  in  the  branches  so  near  them,  that  Cora  often 
playfully  bounded  forward,  for  a  nearer  view  of  some  crimson 
or  yellow-breasted  warbler.  Every  flowering  tree  she  passed 
she  robbed  of  blossoms,  to  decorate  the  neck  of  her  pony,  and 
gem  her  waist  with  brilliant  buds  and  bright-hued  petals.  Tlie 
morning  mists  yet  hung  on  the  brows  of  distant  hills,  veiling 
them  in  pearly  clouds,  while  nearer  by,  the  landscape  was 
gilded  with  the  morning  sun. 

Cora's  spirits  became  gently  subdued  by  the  serenity  and 
loveliness  of  nature — giving  Mr.  Clarendon  a  better  opportu- 
nity to  come  within  the  sphere  of  her  fascinating  influence. 
He  could  now  nearer  watch  the  sweet  blue  of  her  soft-fringed 
eyes  ;  and  in  their  melting  depths  try  to  read  some  sympathy 
in  his  growing  admiration — but  it  was  an  efi*ort  useless  as  the 
devotion  he  yielded.  Her  curls  were  used  to  float  on  every 
passing  breeze  ;  and  she  thought  they  needed  no  more  skillful 
arrangement  by  the  hand  that  gently  put  them  aside  ;  h^^r  tiny 
foot  she  felt  securely  stirruped  ;  and  marvelled  at  tlie  vigilance 
of  him  who  would  better  replace  it,  and  for  the  first  time  was 
ottered  a  guide  to  the  rein,  which  she  had  f-lt  competent  to 
manage  herself.  Still,  these  were  trifles  of  brief  annoyance, 
and  siie  richly  enjoyed  her  ride,  independent  of  her  companion, 
whom  she  hoped  had  had  equal  pleasure.  But  the  happiness 
of  the  latter  had  been  of  an  equivocal  nature.  He  had  found 
Cora  insensible  to  his  flattery  or  devotion,  who  had  apparently 
no  appreciation  of  the  gallantry  hitherto  considered  magical 
among  his  female  acquaintances.  He  was  piqued  and  cha- 
grined with  her  indiflerence.  Still  she  was  ready  to  converse 
on  any  topic  he  might  choose  ;  and  even  playfully  rallied. him 
on  his  silence,  which  she  laughingly  told  him  was  all  owing  .to 
rising  so  early.  That  she  had  observed  his  mood  at  all,  flat- 
tered him  ;  his  spirits  rose  under  the  impression  ;  and  with  gay 
sallies  and  animated  conversation,  he  redeemed  himself  from 
her  accusation.  He  rallied  her  in  return,  on  her  love  for  the 
country  ;  and  in  a  vein  of  irony  descanted  on  its  charms,  in 
contrast  with  city  life.  He  wondered  why  she  ever  slept  at  alt 
where  nature  was  so  rife  with  music — that  she  lost  the  sweet- 
est songs  of  the  bull-frogs  ;  and  that  the  owls  hooted  in  vain 
during  her  slumber  ;  that  she  missed  entirely  the  night-hawkii 


100  I  s  o  li  A  '  ri    Child 

and  buzzards  ;  and  that  while  she  was  dreaming,  the  fairies 
were  holding  their  revels,  with  Queen  Titania  at  their  head, 
and  calling  for  her  to  join  their  band.  That  she  lost  all  the 
night-fogs,  which  were  so  useful  to  the  complexion  ;  and  the 
melody  of  a  thousand  insects  that  never  showed  their  wings 
by  daylight. 

And  more  than  this,  that  the  flowers  opened  while  she  was 
sleeping  ;  and  that  the  bees  stole  all  the  honey,  that  were  she 
up  it  would  be  her  privilege  to  sip.  *'  What  was  sleep,"  he 
said,  "  in  comparison  with  all  this  ? — that  if  he  lived  in  the 
country,  he  should  become  so  romantic  and  enchanted  that  he 
should  think  it  positively  wicked  to  lose  the  sight  of  the 
smallest  gnat,  or  the  odor  of  a  chickweed — that  he  had 
already  pressed  some  grasshopders,  and  stuck  a  hornbug  and 
dragon  fly,  for  his  cabinet  of  curiosities.  But  he  had  acquired 
the  habit  of  sleeping  in  the  city — for  what  was  there  there  to 
wake  for  ?  Kotliing  but  the  music  of  human  voices — the 
excitement  of  the  world's  stage,  *  where  all  the  men  were 
•players.' — '  A  fleeting  show,  for  man's  illusion  given.'  " 

So  Air.  Clarendon  ridiculed  Cora,  for  her  enthusiasm  for 
country-life  and  all  verdant  things,  though  he  begged  her  for 
"just  one  flower  from  her  v/aist  to  carry  home  with  him — that 
such  a  treasure  would  compensate  for  all  the  loss  of  sleep  that 
country  life  ever  occasioned  him." 

But  Cora  protested  that  he  could  not  appreciate  the  gift — 
but  that  "if  she  ever  found  a  beautiful  artificial  rose,  she 
would  send  it  to  him  ;  something  truly  Parisian." 

"  But  supposing  I  was  to  cull  the  prettiest  wild  flower  the 
country  contained — more  beautiful  than  the  city  could  furnish 
— would  you  sanction  me  in  my^  efi'orts  to  transplant  it  ?" 

The  hand  of  Mr.  Clarendon  slid  from  the  bridle-rein  he  held, 
on  to  the  little  gloved  one  near  him,  as  he  spoke, 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Cora.  "It  would  never  flourish,  it  would 
die*  for  want  of  sympathy  in  the  city — poor  little  flower  !  I 
should  pity  it,"  she  continued,  gaily,  while  she  urged  her  com- 
panion to  ride  faster,  as  it  was  almost  breakfast  time. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  reluctant  to  return.  Here  Cora  had  no 
pets  to  attract  her  atteuLion  from  himself  ;  and^  as  he  had 
finally  drawn  hers  from  Robin,  he  thought  he  might  claim  it 
now  more  exclusively.  But  Cora  had  thought  of  her  father, 
•ind  was  bound  heart  and  steed  homeward,  so  that  he  was 
iorced  to  acquiesce  in  her  movements.     She  had  become  sud- 


Isoka's    Child.  101 

denly  alarmed  about  Mrs.  Jonson,  as  she  had  parted  with  her 
the  evening  before,  under  rather  critical  circumstances.  She 
felt  mortified  about  the  entertainment  furnished  Mr.  Clarendon 
in  his  chamber,  but  could  not  have  the  courage  to  allude  to  it; 
and,  lest  anything  ridiculous  should  again  occur,  she  felt  that 
she  ought  to  be  at  home,  if  possible,  to  prevent  it. 

As  Cora  feared,  Mrs.  Jonson  was  indignant  with  the  disap- 
probation of  the  Colonel,  and  determined  to  let  him  see  "  how 
things  would  work  without  her."  So  she  concluded  not  to 
"  be  around  the  parlors  so  much  ;"  consequently,  when  Cora 
returned,  the  usual  work  was  not  done  ;  and  the  same  state  of 
things  prevailed,  as  was  left  the  night  previous.  Ends  of 
cigars  lay  in  improper  places,  rose  leaves  were  scattered  about 
the  rooms,  and  such  a  general  disorder  prevailed,  as  never  was 
before  seen  in  the  cottage.  Not  a  broom  had  found  its  way, 
where  all  before  had  been  exquisite  neatness  ;  and  on  the 
unswept  rug  lay  the  cat  and  dog,  taking  their  morning 
nap. 

As  Cora  entered  the  room  with  Mr.  Clarendon,  where  it 
M^as  their  custom,  after  rising,  first  to  resort, -holding  her  skirt 
up  with  one  hand,  and  riding-whip  in  the  other,  her  eyes  radi- 
ant with  beauty,  a  deep  blush  of  mortification  overspread  her 
face.  She  had  never  before  seen  such  disorder  in  her  father's 
house.  Mr.  Clarendon  observed  the  change  in  her  counte- 
nance ;  and  taking  her  hand  said,  as  he  regarded  it. 

''  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"I  am  forced  to  apologize,"  she  replied.  "Will  you  walk 
into  the  library  ?  Our  housekeeper  has  neglected  her  work, 
and  you  see  here  the  consequences  of  some  reproof  I  gave  her 
last  night,  from  papa." 

"  Regard  it  not,  on  my  account,  Miss  Cora,"  replied  Mr. 
Clarendon,  "  I  will  help  you  pick  up  the  rose  leaves,  and  as  I 
owe  the  good  lady  some,  for  her  generosity  to  me,  I  am  bound 
to  restore  them." 

*'  Oh  !  Mr.  Clarendon,"  said  Cora,  her  face  crimsoning,   "  I 

am   so   mortified  !     You   will    think .     But   it   can't   be 

helped  ;  I  have  no  time  to  cry  about  it.  Pray  make  yourself 
comfortable  somewhere  until  1  can  remedy  matters." 

"Pray  what  can  you  do  ?  I  will  go  into  the  library  or  gar- 
den if  you  say  so, — but  I  must  beg  you  to  go  with  me." 

"  But  you  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Clarendon,"  said  Cora. 

*'But  I  .cannot  at  all,"  said  the  gentleman 


102  Isora's    Child. 

*'Then  I  must  commence  sweeping  jou  away,"  said  she, 
laughing  in  her  vexation. 

"  You  would  make  a  poor  hand  at  sweeping,  I  think, 
and  don't  seem  exactly  dressed  for  the  occupation,"  replied  the 
amused  guesc. 

"Oh  I  I  know  it.  If  papa  was  to  come  down,  he  would  be 
angry,  and  I  can  only  do  my  best  to  restore  matters."  Cora 
hastily  rang  the  bell,  but  it  was  not  the  cook's  business  to 
attend  to  it,  and  lately  Mrs.  Jonson  had  become  housekeeper 
and  waiter,  so  it  remained  unanswered.  "  Then  I  must  go 
myself,"  said  Cora,  rising  energetically. 

Cora  had  never  swept  a  room  in  her  life,  and  when  she  came 
back  in  her  white  morning  dress,  broom  in  hand,  Mr,  Claren- 
don was  still,  provokingly,  in  the  parlor. 

Her  bright  ringlets  were  dancing  about  her  glowing  face, 
now  looking  perplexed  and  dismayed,  for  she  knew  that  her 
father  was  punctilious  and  ceremonious,  and  would  be  exces- 
sively mortified  at  such  an  expose  of  domestic  disquietude  in 
his  house.  She  knew  also  that  his  pride  would  receive  a  blow 
that  he  could  not  well  recover  from,  to  fiud  her  sweeping  and 
dusting  with  the  knowledge  of  his  fashionable  guest.  So  she 
leaned  imploringly  on  her  broomstick,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Cha- 
rendon.  "  Then  you  won't  go  ?"  said  she,  as  she  gave  one  slide 
towards  him  with  the  broom,  while  she  heaved  a  comical  sigh. 

*'  If  you  will  let  me  see  how  you  can  sweep,  I  will." 

*'  Well,  then,  I'll  not  wait  for  you,"  said  Cora,  with  a  smile 
that  he  did  not  like  to  run  away  from.  So  with  more  activity 
than  skill  she  managed  to  raise  at  least  the  dust,  which  Mr. 
Clarendon  declared  was  "  the  best  gymnastic  exercise  that  he 
ever  saw  a  lady  perform,  but  hoped  that  it  would  not  last  long, 
and  supposed  that  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  leave." 

Cora,  once  left  alone,  soon  arranged  matters  with  neatness 
and  taste,  and  was  finally  quite  proud  of  her  first  active, 
domestic  employment,  though  it  had  occurred  under  very  awk- 
ward circumstances,  and  having  taken  a  long  ride,  she  had 
much  rather  have  rested. 

Siie  felt  her  indignation  rise  against  Mrs.  Jonson,  and  hoped 
that  she  would  that  day  be  discharged.  She  had  been  so  busy 
sweeping,  that  she  had  forgotten  that  the  breakfast  duties 
must  have  been  neglected — that  the  cook  always  depended  upon 
Mrs.  Jonson's  orders  ;  and  if  the  lady  was  consistently  mad, 
that  she  had  determined  to  be  revenged  in  the  most  thorou^ih 


Isoka's    Child.  103 

manner.  So  hurrying  from  the  parlor  to  the  kitchen,  she 
found  everything  neglected,  and  the  cook  waiting  for  the 
housekeeper.  By  this  time  the  Colonel  had  come  down  stairs, 
just  as  Cora  had  finished  sweeping  ;  and  found  her  broom  in 
hand  retreating  towards  the  kitchen.  He  was  amazed,  but 
remembering  that  he  had  company  to  entertain,  resorted 
to  his  library,  where  he  found  Mr.  Chirendon  perusing  a 
book. 

After  the  morning  salutations,  he  rubbed  his  hands  ;  and 
looking  at  his  watch,  observed  that  breakfast  was  late,  but 
presumed  that  it  had  waited  for  him.  He  then  rung  the  bell 
violently,  which  music  Mrs.  Jonson  enjoyed  in  her  own  room, 
stretched  out  upon  a  bed  in  a  white  morning  gown,  reading 
the  "  Sorrows  of  Werter,"  upside  down. 

"  Onr  bell  must  be  out  of  order,"  said  the  Colonel,  apolo- 
getically, while  he  gave  it  another  pull.  '"It's  broken,"  said 
he,  in  a  decided  tone. 

Cora  heard  the  bells,  and  they  came  upon  her  ears,  like  the 
knell  of  all  domestic  peace,  for  she  knew  the  disturbance  such 
failure  in  regularity  would  cause  her  very  precise  parent.  But 
she  was  stirring  an  omelette,  for  the  first  time  ;  and  with 
redder  cheeks  and  lips,  than  she  had  ever  exhibited,  she  con- 
tinued to  beat,  while  her  excited  parent  continued  to  ring. 
"Do,  Sophy,  go  to  papa,"  said  she,  "  leave  that  steak,  and  tell 
him  that  breakfast  will  soon  be  ready."  Poor  Cora  was  now 
very  tired,  and  more  ready  to  cry,  than  to  eat — but  from 
the  omelette  she  went  to  the  cupboard,  and  attempted  to  cut 
the  bread,  but  cut  her  fingers  with  the  first  slice,  and  being 
obliged  to  give  it  up,  was  now  in  despair.  Sophy  had  gone 
to  her  father — the  steak  was  burning,  and  the  coffee  boiling 
over  on  the  hearth.  Her  finger  was  bleeding,  and  her  head 
aching  with  excitement  and  solicit^ule. 

"  I  will  not  be  such  a  simpleton,'"  said  she  to  herself.  "  It 
is  all  pride,  and  I  will  never  become  the  victim  that  it  has  ever 
made  o£  poor  papa.  It  is  for  him,  now,  that  I  am  suffering — 
not  for  myself.  I  would  ratlier  tell  Mr.  Clarendon  the  whole, 
than  try  to  effect  impossibilities,  for  appearances,  and  to  get  a 
good  breakfast  requires  at  least  time." 

But  Sophy  had  returned,  and  was  about  expatiating  on  the 
cross  looks  of  the  Colonel  when  she  saw  Cora's  dilemma. 

"  Now  Missy  just  go  in  de  parlor,  I  get  de  breakfast 
myself,"  said  the  ebony. 


104  Isora's    Child. 

"  But,  Sophy,  papa  is  in  haste,  and  I  want  to  help  you — 
just  tie  this  finger  up,  and  I  will  set  the  table." 

Sophy  tied  up  the  finger  that  would  continue  to  bleed  ;  but 
Cora  contrived  to  wind  her  handkerchief  over  it,  and  with  her 
left  hand  to  arrange  the  breakfast  table.  This  she  accomplished 
very  neatly  and  elegantly,  only  upsetting  the  saltcellar,  and 
placing  her  father's  napkin-ring  at  another  plate.  The  break- 
fast was  now  finally  ready.  Sophy  being  always  slow,  and 
accustomed  to  efficient  help,  had  scolded  a  good  deal  ;  and 
like  her  master,  had  so  much  family  pride,  that  she  liked  to 
have  no  failure  in  the  arrangements  for  the  morning  meal — 
she  was  therefore  "put  out,"  about  the  burnt  steak,  and 
could  she  have  dragged  out  Mrs.  Jonson  from  her  retirncy, 
would  have  been  at  least  demonstrative  with  her  tongue,  if  she 
had  spared  the  pudding-stick  over  her  shoulders  ;  and  Cora 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  never  be  again  so 
dependent  upon  the  caprices  of  any  domestic.  But  while  the 
commotion  was  going  on  in  the  kitchen  ;  and  the  lady  house- 
keeper had  fallen  asleep  over  her  "  Sorrows,"  the  gentlemen 
were  yawning  in  the  library  ;  one  thinking  that  he  ou«-ht  to  be 
in  town  and  the  other  that  all  "  genteel  housekeepers " 
ought  to  be  sent  to  State  prison. 

But,  at  the  hour  of  ten,  Cora  appeared  with  her  bound-up 
hand  and  flushed  cheeks,  at  the  door  of  the  library,  and 
said, 

"  I  believe  breakfast  is  at  last  ready,  papa." 

"  Ah,  my  daughter — you  are  up  then  ? — Mrs.  Jonson  is  ill, 
I  hear.  Sad  thing  !  quite  awkward  for  you  1  Come  Mr. 
Clarendon,  take  an  unceremonious  meal  with  us  this  morn 
ing." 

Mr.  Clarendon  looked  at  Cora  solicitously — he  had  imagined 
all — but  was  puzzled  about  the  bound-up  hand. 

"  Did  you  lame  your  hand  riding,  Miss  Cora  ?"  said  the 
latter. 

"  No,"  said  Cora,  ingenuously,  in  defiance  of  hei;  father's 
notions  of  propriety,  "  I  was  trying  to  cut  some  bread,  and 
cut  my  hand  instead." 

Mr.  Clarendon  expressed  in  looks  his  compassion,  and  the 
Colonel  exhibited  his  anger,  by  a  desperate  plunge  upon  the 
butter.  But  the  pride  of  the  latter  led  him  to  conceal  his 
chagrin  as  much  as  possible,  and  the  Colonel  never  was  more 
loquacious.     Cora's  extreme  weariness  was  evident,  and  as  the 


Isora's    Child.  103 

flush  faded  from  her  eht^k,  she  became  purely  white,  and  her 
eyes  languid.  Mr.  Clarendon  was  compelled  soon  to  rise 
from  the  table,  and  was  never  more  in  love  than  when  he  saw 
that  delicate  and  beautiful  as  Cora  seemed,  she  was  totally 
free  from  atfectatiou,  and  could  meet  an  exigency  with  energy 
and  openness. 

With  many  flattering  remarks  upon  the  pleasure  of  his 
visit,  the  guest  took  leave  of  Yillacora,  the  Colonel,  and  his 
daughter,  with  a  promise  soon  to  repeat  his  visit  ;  but  as  he 
went  into  the  hall,  followed  by  the  Colonel,  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  accosted  by  a  familiar  "  good  morning  "  from 
Mrs.  Jonson,  who  had  just  come  down  stairs  the  front  way,  as 
large  as  Hfe,  dressed  in  white,  with  her  slippers  on — the  figure- 
head being  completed  zoologically,  she  having  sat  up  late 
at  night  to  make  them,  having  manufactured  the  soles  out  of 
one  of  the  Colonel's  old  hats.  Her  figure  was  allowed  its 
free  play,  as  she  flowingly  descended  with  an  open  skirt.  Over 
her  frizette,  lay  a  square  of  net-work,  pinned  with  two  gilt 
bugs.  Colonel  Livingston  saw  her  coming,  as  she  appeared 
around  the  point  of  the  upper  stairway.  He  wiped  the 
sudden  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  and  very  nimbly  at- 
tempted to  find  Mr.  Clarendon's  hat — hoping  to  succeed 
before  she  presented  herself,  but  his  effort  was  unavailing. 
She  passed  the  Colonel  magnificently,  and  was  evidently 
bound  for  the  garden,  but,  owing  to  her  night's  task,  was 
somewhat  overpowered.  The  Colonel  had  always  been  rath-er 
in  awe  of  her  ;  and  now  looked  solicitous  as  to  her  movements  ; 
but  as  she  remained  standing,  and  was  likely  to  do  so  while 
Mr.  Clarendon  stayed,  the  gentleman  hastened  off,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand  to  Cora,  wiio  had  sunk  upon  the  sofa, 
exhausted. 

The  Colonel  returned  to  the  breakfast-room,  where  Mrs. 
Jonson  followed,  and  seated  herself  in  the  rocking-chair, 
observing  that  "breakfast  was  late"  Cora  made  no  reply, 
but  looked  at  her  father,  who  sat  bolt  up  in  his  chair — his 
gold-headed  cane  between  his  legs. 

"  Captain  Liveston,"  said  Mrs.  Jonson,  "  I'm  about 
journeying — but  think  I'll  stay  with  you  till  dinner's  over  ;  I 
suppose  you  don't  want  parlor  company  any  longer — Vta 
ready  to  settle,  when  you  is." 

"  Any  time,  Mrs.  Jonson — any  time — call  when  you  coma 
back,  Mrs.  Jonson — inconvenient  to  go  to  the  bank  to-day." 


106  I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child. 

An  expression  of  womanly  pride  saddened  the  pale  face  of 
Cora,  who  rose  and  went  to  her  chamber. 

The  sum  due  Mrs.  Jonson  she  supposed  to  be  about  twenty- 
dollars.  She  looked  at  her  purse — it  contained  half  the 
amount — then  over  her  jewelry,  and  her  wardrobe  ;  won- 
dering in  what  way  she  could  procure  the  remainder.  She 
could  not  attempt  to  sell  aiiythini^,  though  she  felt  that  she 
would  gladly  do  it,  rather  than  that  Mi's.  Jonson  should  go 
away  unpaid. 

Cora  had  been  promised  a  birthday  present,  and  such  gifts 
were  always  procured  by  her  father  punctually  ;  but  she  had 
observed  that  the  servants'  wages  always  troubled  him.  She 
knew  nothing  of  his  circumstances,  and  was  mortified  at  his 
remissness.  She  determined  that,  by  some  personal  sacrifice, 
this  sum  should  be  obtamed  for  Mrs.  Jonsou,  while  she  was 
allowed  immediately  to  depart. 

While    thus    meditating,    her    father    entered    her    room. 
*'  Cora,"   said  he,    "  I  can't  pay  this  woman  to-day  ;  talk  to 
•>her,  and  tell  her  I  will  send  it  to  her.     I  will  give  her  a  note  ; 
anything  to  keep  her  quiet." 

"  How  much  do  you  owe  her,  papa,"  said  Cora. 

"  Oh,  a  trifle,  my  daughter  ;  let  her  wait,  only  not  here— 
she  takes  my  breath,  positively,  Cora." 

Cora  slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  accosted  Mrs.  Jonson, 
who  was  still  fanning  herself  in  the  rocking-chair. 

"  Well,"  said  she  ;  "  the  bells  rung  a  chime  this  morning, 
didn't  they  ?  I  was  busy  reading,  or  I  might  have  waited  on 
'em,  only  I  knew  I  should  have  to  come  into  the  parlor.  How, 
did  Sophy  wag,  when  she  found  she  had  to  stir  her  snail  horns, 
eh  ?  Miss  Cora.  The  parlors  didn't  need  cleaning,  I  'spose. 
I'm  glad  you  dispensed  without  me  so  well.  But  you  and  I, 
Miss" Cora,  won't  fall  out.  I  should  as  soon  chafe  at  a  white 
kitten ;  besides  we've  had  now  and  then  a  pickle  together. 
But  between  you  and  I,  and  the  post,  I  never  could  abide 
Captain  Lives*^ton.  If  he  goes  to  Heaven  it  will  be  on  a 
lightning-rod,  straight  up.     He's  too  stiff  for  ray  quaUty." 

"  Don't  speak  in  that  way  of  papa  to  me,"  said  Cora  ;  "  I 
have  come  to  talk  to  you  about  your  wages.  He  owes  you 
twenty  dollars,  I  find." 

**  Miss  Cora,  I  always  took  a  fancy  to  that  gold  cross  of 
yours.  Now,  I'll  buy  it  of  you  in  the  way  of  wages,  if  you'll 
Bell  it.     How  much  is  it  worth  ?" 


Isoka's    Child.  107 

"  About  fifteen  dollars,"  said  Cora. 

"  ril  give  you  ten  for  it.  If  I  should  ever  change  my  con- 
dition, I  might  like  it  for  a  bosom  ornament." 

"  Well,  tiien,  Mrs.  Jonson,  here  is  ten  dollars,  and  you  may 
have  the  cross.     I  will  get  it  for  you." 

Cora  ran  to  her  chamber,  and  placed  the  bill  and  the  cross 
in  the  hands  of  the  housekeeper  ;  and  was  about  leaving  her, 
when  she  said  : 

"  Miss  Cora,  I  will  make  my  adoos  to  you  now,  as  I  am 
going  to  pack,  and  wish  that  you  would  give  my  farewells  also 
to  Captain  Livestone  and  Sophy.  I  should  like  to  be  carried 
to  meet  a  'bus  about  one  o'clock." 

"  The  wagon  will  be  ready,"  said  Cora,  with  quiet  dignity. 
Cora  then  went  into  her  father's  room,  where  he  sat  in  gloomy 
thought. 

"  Mrs.  Jonson  is  going,  papa,  and  I  have  paid  her." 

"  You,  my  daughter,  how  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me,  papa,  she  is  satisfied." 

Cora  then  flew  out  towards  the  stable,  to  order  the  vehicle 
to  be  made  ready  to  convey  Mrs.  Jonson  to  the  boat.  Her 
morning  had  been  truly  a  fatiguing  one,  and  she  was  glad  to 
return  to  her  chamber  ;  where  she  soon  forgot  her  troubles  in 
a  sound  sleep. 


CHAPTER     IX. 

"  Change  is  written  on  the  tide, 
On  the  forest's  leafy  pride, 
On  the  streamlet  glancing  bright, 
On  the  jewelled  crown  of  night." 


Mil.  CLARENDON  returned  home,  amused  and  charmed 
with  his  visit  at  Yillacora.  He  had  made  satisfactory  his 
interview  with  the  Colonel.  He  had'  encouraged  him  respect- 
ing his  future  prospects,  and  given  him  some  faint  hopes  of 
assistance  in  procuring  an  office  that  would  yield  him  a  com- 
fortable income.  He  had  found  the  daughter  of  the  Colonel 
a  fascinating  girl  for  her  years,  and  possessing  every  qualifica,* 


108  Isoka's    Child. 

tion  he  could  desire  in  a,  wife,  with  the  exception  of  her 
extreme  youth,  and  inexperience.  Still  he  had  discovered  in 
her  that  inborn  elegance,  that  promised  to  perfect  her  as  a 
woman  of  society  ;  and  sufficient  maturity  of  character  to 
render  her  even  now  a  companion.  Her  freshness  and  naivete 
captivated  him  ;  and  her  beauty  excited  his  admiration — 
but  more  than  all,  he  looked  upon  her  as  well  born  ;ind 
highly  bred,  with  unexceptionable  parentage  and  connections. 
That  she  bewitched  him,  or  ever  would,  as  had  Flora,  his 
heart  could  not  acknowledge  ;  yet  when  he  contrasted  her 
with  the  latter,  the  spell  in  which  Flora  had  bound  him, 
resumed  its  magical  power.  Still  pride  came  between  hira 
and  the  object  of  his  passionate  love,  and  he  reasoned  himself 
into  the  belief  that  one  so  perfect  as  Cora  Livingston,  would, 
as  his  wife,  exercise  over  him  the  same  influence.  Her  youth 
he  finally  looked  upon  as  an  advantage — he  felt  that  he  could 
mould  her  the  more  readily  to  his  tastes  ;  and  acquire  over 
her  that  power  that  he  could  not  exercise  over  one  older. 
In  his  cooler  moments,  when  reason  and  judgment  held  their 
sway,  for  weeks  after  their  first  acquaintance  with  Cora,  he 
was  biased  in  his  preference  for  her  as  a  wife,  over  any  being 
that  he  had  ever  met — but  there  was  no  one  so  exalted  in  his 
mind,  that  could  as  yet  melt  and  subdue  his  proud  nature  as 
the  beautiful  affectionate  girl  that  he  spurned  as  the  sharer 
of  his  name  and  his  home — the  acknowledged  idol  of  his 
heart. 

Thus  the  conflict  went  on,  until  the  loneliness  of  his  house, 
his  yearning  for  companionship,  and  the  necessity  he  felt  for  a 
head  to  his  household,  induced  him  again  to  seek  Yillacora, 
and  to  ascertain  more  fully  from  observation,  the  ground  on 
which  he  proposed  to  tread.  That  Colonel  Livingston  would 
feel  honored  by  his  preference  for  his  daughter,  he  had 
little  doubt,  and  that  he  could  win  the  youthful  Cora,  he 
imagined  an  easy  task.  Secluded  as  she  was  from  society, 
without  wealth  to  enable  her  to  shine  in  the  fashionable  world, 
he  felt  that  ambition  alone  would  lead  her  to  accept  his 
proposals,  should  he  offer  her  his  hand. 

But  the  self-love  of  Louis  Clarendon,  coald  not  be  contented 
with  the  passive  acceptance  of  his  homage  and  name.  The 
woman  he  married  must  purely,  passionately  love  him  for  him- 
self. So  he  now  felt,  and  when  he  again  determined  to  revisit 
the  abode  of  Cora  Livingston,  it  was  with  hope  and  confidence, 


Isoka's    Child.  109 

that  should  his  opiuion  of  her  be  confirmed,  he  could  thus  win 
her,  wholly  and  speedily. 

But  other  thoughts  had  engaged  the  present  object  of  his 
fancy.  She  had  trials  to  endure  that  he  thought  not  of,  and 
those  that  oppressed  her  young  heart  with  hitherto  unknown 
cares  and  anxieties. 

She  had  been  much  relieved  by  the  departure  of  Mrs. 
Jonson,  but  the  responsibilities  which  it  brought  upon  her 
were  suddenly  great  and  wearisome.  Her  father  was  desirous 
that  some  effort  should  be  made  to  procure  a  substitute.  He 
told  Cora  that  his  prospects  were  brightening  ;  and  that  she 
must  not  allow  herself  any  deprivation,  or  assume  any  new 
degrading  duties.  But  Cora,  young  as  she  was,  had  had  the 
distant  mirage  of  anticipated  fortune  so  long  in  view — bringing 
to  the  soul  of  her  despouding  parent  no  refreshing  food  for 
mind  or  body — and  knew  that  for  some  unexplained  reasons, 
bills  were  constantly  presented  to  remain  unpaid,  and  that 
servants  (save  those  old  faithful  hearts  that  love  and  family 
pride  yet  retained)  after  months  of  labor  were  obliged  to 
quit  her  father's  service,  with  promises  only  for  their  reward. 
Her  good  sense  showed  her,  that  this  was  all  wrong  ;  and  yet 
she  had  been  reared  in  a  manner  to  unfit  her  for  exertion. 
She  mourned  over  her  helplessness,  and  seeming  inability  to 
aid  their  domestic  troubles,  but  she  knew  that  she  could  at 
least  try  to  diminish  their  household  expenses,  and  by  assum- 
ing new  cares,  relieve  themselves  from  that  very  uncertain 
comfort,  a  new  housekeeper. 

A  few  days  after  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Jonson,  Cora  went 
to  her  father's  study — her  dark  blue  eyes  beaming  with  sym- 
pathy, and  her  cheek  varying  with  exciting  emotions. 

Her  little  white  hands  and  arms  were  laid  caressingly  on 
his  shoulders,  while  she  whispered,  "don't  write  that  advertise- 
ment, papa — I  will  be  your  housekeeper  ;  I  can  have  a  little 
girl  to  help  me,  and  we  will  get  along  nicely." 

"  Oh  1  no,  Cora.     I  cannot  consent  to  any  such  thing." 

"  Dear  papa — Sophy  will  like  it  a  great  deal  better,  and  do 
twice  as  much  as  when  ordered  about  by  a  strange  woman. 
Was  not  your  dinner  good  to-day — and  everything  in  nice 
order  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  you  looked  wearied,  and  ate  nothing.  We 
have   never   been   accustomed  to  such   things  in  our  family. 


110 


You  look  like  work,  Cora,  trul}^,  with  your  white  soft  fingers  I 
a  Livingstoa  to  come  to  this  !     I  cannot  permit  it." 

"  But,  papa,  we  can  lessen  our  expenses  until  your  circum- 
stances are  better.  Can't  you  suffer  any  reduction  in  our 
style  of  living  ?  You  must,  I  know,  have  your  wine,  papa  ; 
but  there  are  some  luxuries  we  can  dispense  with." 

"  But  I  cannot  see  you  work,  Cora." 

"You  shall  uot  see  me  work,  papa.  I  will  do  all  that  is 
necessary  before  breakfast,  instead  of  riding  ;  and  then,  you 
know,  we  can  go  at  evening.  Won't  this  do  ?"  she  said, 
coaxingly. 

"  Well;  have  your  own  way,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  sigh, 
as  he  tore  up  a  slip  of  paper  upon  which  he  had  written. 

"  But  you  know  you  cut  your  fingers  when  you  attempted 
^0  work  last  week,"  he  continued. 

'*But  that  was  all  owing  to  the  excitement  and  hurry  of 
the  occasion,  and  pride,  papa,  that  our  poverty  in  servants 
should  be  concealed.  Now  I  will  not  let  pride  cut  either  my 
fingers  or  my  heart  ;  I  will  not  be  ashamed  of  trying  to  save 
you  expense.  It  will  not  mortify  me  half  as  much  to  work 
as  to  have  servants  wait  for  their  wages." 

''  Go,  go,  child  ;  but  don't  fatigue  yourself,  don't  spoil  your 
hands  and  complexion." 

"Sophy  will  not  let  me  cook,  papa;  she  is  not  afraid,  you 
know  of  hers  ;  and  I  shall  only  take  care  of  the  parlors  and 
the  dining-room.  We  can  have  a  little  girl  for  waiter,  and  then 
we  shall  not  be  annoyed  by  airs  or  duns."  So  Cora  closed  the 
conference  with  her  father  ;  and,  by  a  few  words,  managed  to 
procure  his  consent  to  a  change  which  he  once  thought  could 
not  have  been  effected. 

With  a  lighter  heart,  Cora  now  commenced  a  routine  of 
daily  employment,  which,  at  first,  seemed  new  and  pleasant, 
from  the  novelty  and  importance  which  she  attached  to  it. 
But  there  were  times  when  she  would  have  preferred  riding, 
to  arranging  the  parlors  and  taking  care  of  the  china  and- 
silver  ;  and  when  at  times  interested  in  a  book,  she  heaved  a 
eigh  when  she  remembered  that  the  dessert  was  not  prepared, 
or  the  decanters  re-filled  with  wine,  a  luxury  to  which  her 
father  had  always  been  accustomed  at  dinner.  And  more  than 
once  she  felt  the  burden  of  her  cares  when  she  longed  for  her 
favorite  ramble  in,  the  woods,  which,  seemed  to  have  become, 


I  s  0  K  a'  s    Child.  Ill 

of  late,  doubly  attractive  to  lier.  But  she  ever  cleared  away 
the  coming  i'rov.'-n,  and  warbled  as  sweetly  over  her  work  as 
she  had  ever  done  when  idling  away  her  leisure  hours. 

Her  father  at  first  anxiously  watched  her  movements  ;  but 
was  cheered  when  he  heard  the  same  glad  tones  of  his  daugh- 
ter's voice,  and  saw  that  her  suimy  smile  was  as  bright  as  of 
old.  He  knew  not  of  the  new  vexatious  that  she  hid  from  his 
view,  and  ^of  the  petty  annoyances  that  came  with  her  new 
cares,  many  of  which  arose  from  the  scanty  provision  made, 
while  a  generous  table  was  essential  to  his  good  humor  and 
comfort.  Still  the  time  came  for  her  to  ride  on  dear  Robin, 
and  her  loved  rambles  were  enjoyed,  if  she  had  not  her  choice 
of  hours  ;  and  her  father's  cherished  interview  with  her  at 
evening,  when  she  sang  and  played  to  him,  was  still  one  of  her 
chief  sources  of  happiness. 

When  Mr,  Clarendon  came  again  to  Yillacora,  he  met  Cora 
going  into  the  garden  to  pick  strawberries  for  tea.  She  had  a 
dish  in  her  hand,  and  the  same  little  rustic  bonnet  on  her  head 
which  she  wore  when  he  first  saw  her.  He  accosted  her  sud- 
denly ;  but  Cora  met  him  with  sweet  self-possession,  laying 
down  her  dish  as  quietly  as  if  it  had  been  a  bouquet  of  flowers, 
while  she  presented  her  hand  and  gave  him  a  welcome.  She 
was  looking  more  blooming  than  when  he  last  saw  her,  but 
still  refined  and  delicate.  Her  dress  was  simple  and  lovely, 
of  white  material,  with  a  black  silk  apron,  into  which  was 
tucked  a  bunch  of  violets.  Her  curls  were  looped  back,  show- 
ing more  perfectly  her  profile,  which,  in  the  unconscious  way 
she  averted  her  face,  revealed  it  in  its  full  beauty. 

Mr.  Clarendon  held  in  his  hand  a  bunch  of  exotics  which  he 
had  procured  from  a  green-house  for  Cora,  and  which  he  now 
handed  her  with  his  usual  grace.  She  pronounced  them  beau- 
tiful, and  in  her  enthusiasm  over  the  rare  flowers,  forgot  her 
errand  into  the  garden.  She  went  into  the  parlor  with  their 
visitor,  and,  after  throw^ing  aside  her  bonnet,  placed  her  roses 
and  other  beauties  in  a  vase,  and  ^id  so  many  graceful, 
charming  things  in  her  admiration  of  them,  that  her  guest  was 
half  jealous  of  his  own  gift.  The  bouquet  being  arranged,  she 
invited  Mr.  Clarendon  to  a  cool  seat  by  the  lattice,  while  she 
acquainted  her  father  with  his  arrival.  But  the  latter  begged 
ner  not  to  be  in  haste,  and  to  tell  him  where  she  was  going 
when  he  came  in. 

"  To  pick  strawberries  for  tea,"  said  she. 


112  Isoka's    Child. 

"  Enough  for  tlie  bird,  Minnie,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Claren- 
don laufijliino:. 

"  Oh  !  more  than  that,  I  hope,"  said  Cora,  smiling — "our 
Fines  are  very  full,  and  they  are  easily  culled." 

"  But  you  must  find  it  fatiguing — I  can  hardly  excuse  you, 
Miss  Cora,  until  after  tea,  when  I  will  accompany  you,  and 
help  you  rob  the  vines." 

*'  Oh  !  I  do  not  mean  to  be  so  rude  as  to  go  at  present,"  said 
Cora  with  a  blush,  "  until  papa  comes,  but  I  must  call 
him." 

"  King  then,  I  beg  of  you — I  have  some  beautiful  music  to 
show  you — something  quite  new." 

"  Ah  !  said  Cora  politely — you  are  very  kind."  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon unrolled  several  pages,  ov^r  which  he  looked  with  Cora, 
who  could  not  immediately  release  herself,  though  she  feared 
she  should  have  hardly  time  to  pick  the  berries.  But  she  lin- 
gered until  she  felt  the  necessity  of  going  on  her  errand,  her 
"  little  girl  "  being  engaged  with  tea  preparations. 

"Papa  will  be  anxious  to  see  you,  Mr.  Clarendon,"  said 
she,  approaching  the  door,  and  before  he  could  object,  she  had 
summoned  her  father  to  the  parlor,  where  she  accompanied 
him,  and  excused  herself,  "  hoping  that  he  would  remain  until 
morning." 

Tiie  Colonel  was  rejoiced  to  see  Mr.  Clarendon,  which  satis- 
faction he  evinced  by  unusual  relaxation  from  his  habitual 
unsocial  mood,  and  not  having  met  him  for  several  weeks,  he  was 
overburdened  with  subjects  from  which  he  had  since  that  period 
been  laboring  for  relief. 

His  guest,  after  giving  the  Colonel  as  much  attention  as,  in 
his  discretionary  view  of  things,  he  deemed  proper  and  agreea- 
ble, contrived  to  disappear  from  his  presence.  He  soon  found 
Cora  in  the  strawberry  bed — her  dish  quite  heaped  with  deli 
cious  fruit.  He  marvelled  at  her  success,  and  more  at  her 
industry,  but  as  she  had  not  become  too  ruddy  by  her  employ- 
ment, he  thought  her  occupation  rather  graceful  than  other- 
wise, especially  as  she  had  finished,  and  might  be  ready  to  rove 
with  him. 

"  Allow  me  to  take  your  dish,"  said  he,  "  and  after  I  have 
disposed  of  it,  we  will  look  up  the  cherry  trees  you  promised 
to  show  me  when  I  came  again." 

Cora  was  now  standing  beside  him,  with  a  pair  of  lips  as  red 
as  her  strawberries,  which  parted  in  a  smile  of  approval  at  his 


Isoka's    Child.  113 

suggestion — though  she  told  him  that  she  must  carry  them  in 
herself,  to  be  prepared  for  tea. 

"Why  one  would  think,"  said  he,  laughing,  "  by  your  super- 
vision, that  you  were  housekeeper." 

"  Well,  I  am,"  answered  Cora,  shaking  back  one  of  her 
disengaged  ringlets,  "  and  am  afraid  you  will  be  the  sufferer 
to-night  by  the  loss  of  Mrs.  Jousou — hi  your  evening  repast, 
and  chamber  decorations." 

Mr.  Clarendon  laughed  heartily  at  his  remembrance  of  the 
benevolent  lady,  but  with  a  sudden  tone  of  surprise  inquired, 
if  she  "really  could  assume  any  responsibility  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  can  sweep  now,  and  cut  bread,  and  not  cut  my 
fingers,"  said  she,  with  a  musical  laugh. 

"  With  these  little  fingers  ?"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  taking 
hold  of  the  rosy  tips  that  were  yet  stained  with  the  berries. 

"  Oh,  I  find  that  fingers  are  useful  for  a  great  many  pur- 
poses," replied  Cora,  withdrawing  hers  from  the  hand  that 
seemed  inclined  to  detain  them.  "  I  will  be  back  in  one  moment;" 
but  as  she  was  about  hastening  towards  the  cottage  with  her 
fruit,  a  little  girl  accosted  her,  with  a  Holland  apron  and  tidy 
dress,  and  after  a  few  w-hispered  words,  she  consigned  the  dish 
to  the  child,  and  started  for  the  cherry-trees.  "  You  must 
reach  the  branches,  and  I  will  pick,"  said  she,  "  my  hands  are 
now  just  fitted  for  the  task." 

Cora  flitted  before  him  as  she  spoke,  looking,  as  Mr, 
Clarendon  thought,  sweeter  and  fresher  than  all  the  honey- 
hearts  in  the  orchard.  Overtaking  her,  he  asked  what  she 
would  put  them  in.  "  Oh,  we  must  tie  them  in  bunches,"  said 
she.  Mr.  Clarendon  assented,  and  with  avidity  entered  into 
all  her  plans.  For  a  while,  he  was  the  true  Arcadian,  and 
discussed  with  animation  all  rural  and  grassy  things,  af- 
fecting any  degree  of  enthusiasm  politic,  and  seemed  ready 
to  take  up  his  abode  in  an  apple-tree,  if  it  suited  the  young 
beauty's  romance. 

As  he  stood  confronting  her,  their  hands  mixed  up  wn'th 
cherry  leaves,  and  well-picked  branches,  he  became  suddenly 
craving  for  a  country  seat  on  the  Hudson,  and  its  imagined 
charms  were  so  vividly  described,  that  Cora  began  to  believe 
that  their  town  visitor  was  really  becoming  rational  in  his  love 
for  the  country  ;  but  when  she  looked  at  the  delicate  hands 
which  held  her  cherry-branch,  and  the  suit  of  black  that 
made    up    the    outward   adorning   of   the   w^ould-be-country- 


ll:t  IsoiiA's    Child. 

gentleman,  she  thought  he  could  illy  stand  transplanting  ;  and 
that  however  deep  he  might  be  rooted  in  country  soil,  he 
would  come  up  a  city  man.  "  Now  my  hands  are  full,"  said 
Cora,  "  have  you  a  string  to  tie  them  with — I  have  nothing  but 
this  about  ray  violets." 

"  Let  me  see  !"  answered  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  "  I  brought  some 
l)apers  to  your  father,  and  the  string,  I  believe,  has  got  into 
my  pocket  ;  here  it  is  " — when  out  came  enough  red  tape  to 
confine  the  cherries,  which  Cora  thought  rather  clumsy  ;  how- 
ever, she  accepted  the  offering,  and  thus  it  took  a  long  time  to 
arrange  matters  under  the  cherry-trees. 

**  After  tea,"  said  Mr,  Clarendon,  while  he  trimmed  with  his 
13enknife  the  strings  around  Cora's  branches,  "  I  should  like  to 
take  a  drive  with  you.  It  will  be  pleasant  about  sunset.  Will 
you  give  me  the  pleasure  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Cora,  "I  have  had  such  a  long  ramble 
this  afternoon,  all  over  the  glen,  that  I  am  quite  wearied — I 
was  so  glad  that  I  went  to-day,  I  saved  the  lives  of  some 
dear  little  robins  that  had  built  their  nests  there," 

"  Who  was  so  cruel  as  to  peril  their  lives  V 

"  Oh,  a  gentleman — I  cannot  tell  you  his  name — he  was 
thoughtless,  not  cruel,"  said  Cora,  quickly. 

"  Do  you  often  ramble  alone,  Miss  Cora  ?  How  did  you 
prevent  his  shooting  them  ?" 

**  He  was  sorry  that  he  had  alarmed  Ine,"  said  Cora,  with  a 
sudden  blush, 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clarendon,  becom- 
ing interested, 

"  Oh  !  I  know  he  was."  Cora  now  played  with  the  violets 
in  her  waist-ribbon,  and  her  look  was  downcast, 

"  I  will  get  that  beautiful  bunch  of  '  black  hearts  '  for  you, 
if  you  will  tell  me  how  you  know  he  was  *  so  sorry '  that  bQ 
had  alarmed  you." 

"  A  rich  bribe,"  said  Cora,  turning  aside, 

"  Feeding  your  birds  with  shot,  was  he  ?"  continued  he  ; 
''and  did  he  give  you  those  flowers  as  an  atonement  ?" 

Cora's  cheeks  were  now  of  a  deeper  red,  while  she  turned 
away  half  vexed. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  reaching  for  another  branch, 
"  I  will  drop  that  question.  Only  tell  me  the  color  of  his 
eyes,  his  hair,  and  whether  he  wears  coat,  frock  or  rounda- 
bout ?" 


Isoka's    Child.  115 

"  I  don't  kuow  how  to  answer  any  of  your  important 
queries,"  answered  Cora.     ''  I  didn't  look  at  his  eyes." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Miss  Cora,  that  no  gentleman,  exactly 
honorable,  would  sport  so  near  your  premises." 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  honorable,"  said  Cora,  with  some  warmth. 
"  He  says  that  he  will  never  graze  the  feather  of  any  bird,  if  I 
love  its  music.  Let  us  go  in,  if  you  please.  I  lost  the  best 
branch  I  had." 

"  Shall  1  reach  it  again  for  you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Cora,  her  face  averted.     ''  I  am  tired." 

Mr.  Clarendon  thought  that  she  seemed  also  a  little  vexed. 
He  soon  turned  the  conversation,  not  forgetting  the  adventure 
of  the  sportsman.  He  had  observed  the  violets  before,  but 
now  he  remarked  that  they  were  tied  carefully,  and  had  been 
cherished  notwithstanding  the  berry  and  cherry  picking. 
They  came  to  the  cottage  well  laden  with  fruit  and  in  good 
humor,  though  a  slight  ripple  had  crossed  the  surface  of  their 
minds.  Cora  then  superintended  the  tea  arrangements  ;  and 
so  delicately  and  quietly  was  all  managed,  that  she  seemed  to 
be  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  without  any  apparent  disturb- 
ance. When  she  came  from  her  chamber  the  violets  were 
missing,  and  Mr.  Clarendon  knew  nothing  of  the  care  with 
which  they  were  placed  in  a  small  vase,  each  little  blue  eye 
propped  up- in  its  nest  of  green. 

Tea  was  served  in  a  little  room  that  looked  upon  a  rose- 
terrace  ;  the  blinds  of  the  windows,  which  extended  to  the 
piazza,  were  opened,  and  a  refreshing  breeze  was  admitted, 
which,  coming  over  flowers,  was  sweet  and  grateful.  The 
Colonel  was  delighted  with  Cora's  success  in  housekeeping, 
and  amazed  that  she  could  really  work.  Her  hands  were  as 
white  as  ever,  and  what  was  sweeter  than  all,  she  was  as 
cheerful  as  when  no  care  occupied  her  mind.  Mr.  Clarendon 
was  surprised  at  the  energy  Cora  exhibited,  for  he  had 
observed  the  change  in  their  domestic  arrangements,  and  knew 
that  much  must  devolve  upon  her  ;  knowing,  also,  how  deli- 
cately she  had  been  reared,  he  was  astonished  to  find  the 
Colonel's  circumstances  such  as  to  require  close  economy — a 
condition  worse  from  the  great  effort  made  to  conceal  his 
poverty.  He  observed  that  Cora  was  occasionally  absent  in 
mind,  and  was  at  times  embarrassed  if  any  mention  was  mado 
of  her  long  walks.     He  rallied  her  on  the  loss  of  her  flowers^ 


116  I  S  O  R  a' S      C  II  I  LD. 

and  asked  her  if  she  expected  to  receive  others  as  pretty  the 
following  day. 

Tea  being  over,  the  Colonel  and  Mr,  Clarendon  took  a  stroll 
on  the  avenue,  while  Cora  w^as  left  within  doors.  She  had 
taught  her  little  girl  much  that  was  useful,  and  was  soon  able 
to  resort  to  a  book  on  the  piazza.  In  the  meanwhile,  the 
Colonel  and  his  guest  held  a  conversation  upon  matters  of 
business. 

Though  Mr.  Clarendon,  in  his  leisure  hours,  embodied  the 
idea  of  a  gallant,  yet  out  of  the  presence  of  the  other  sex,  he 
was  thoroughly  the  man  of  business  ;  and  as  he  now  entered 
into  conversation  with  Colonel  Livingston,  his  bearing  was 
stern  and  decisive,  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have 
imagined  him  moved  by  beings  of  gentler  sway.  The  Colonel 
gave  his  visitor  to  understand  that  his  affairs  had  become 
recently  embarrassed,  and  that  the  office  which  they  had  talked 
of,  would  be  very  desirable  for  him  to  hold  until,  at  least,  his 
lawsuit  with  Wilton  was  determined  ;  and,  if  the  case  was  de- 
cided adversely,  that  he  should  still  require  it  for  iiis  support. 

Mr.  Clarendon  informed  him  that  it  was  necessary  to  court 
some  intluence  in  the  matter,  and  that,  unfortunately,  his 
opponent,  Mr.  Wilton,  was  a  competitor  for  the  same  place. 
He  delicately  hinted  to  the  Colonel,  that  his  pride  would 
hinder  him  from  taking  the  same  measures  that  Wilton  used  to 
effect  his  ends,  and  that  he  feared  he  would  fail  for  lack  of 
exertion. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  grovel  in  the  ditch  for  favor,"  said  the 
Colonel.  "I  wish  to  be  sure  of  your  influence,  I  ask  no 
more." 

"You  overrate  my  influence,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon.  "I 
may  pull  some  wires  to  your  advantage,  but  you  are  too  little 
known,  my  friend,  and  will,  perhaps,  lie  still,  while  another 
steals  the  office." 

''It  is  true,"  said  the  Colonel,  ''that  I  am  helpless  alone. 
My  habits  and  life  have  unfitted  me  for  strife  ;  and  a  situation 
that  compels  me  to  use  diplomacy,  I  would  not  seek.  I  could 
not  flatter,  fawn,  or  sell  my  rights  of  conscience." 

"  Colonel,"  said  the  guest,  "  you  ought  to  have  been  a  lord 
on  British  soil.  You  canuot  sit  and  sip  your  choice  Madeira, 
and  expect  an  ofBce  to  be  presented  unsought." 

"  1  do  not  ;  but  I  wish  you  to  act  for  me." 


■Wy 


Isora's    Child.  117 

"  I  like  your  honesty,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  with  a  shrug. 
"  I  should  regret  to  see  Wilton  wrest  everything  from  you. 
The  very  acres  of  yours  which  he  holds,  help  him  still  further 
to  wrong  you." 

"  1  need  not  the  inducement  of  rivalry,  Heaven  knows,  to 
urge  me  to  exertion  ;  and  any  course,  consistent  with  honor 
and  right,  I  am  willing  to  pursue  for  the  end  I  seek." 

"  Thank  you,  Colonel,"  replied  the  counsellor,  with  a  laugh. 
**  My  conscience  carries  its  own  burden  lightly — how  it  might 
fare  with  yours,  is  yet  a  problem.  You  remind  me  of  the 
monkey  with  the  chestnuts,  but  I  can  play  puss,  and,  I  think, 
not  burn  my  fingers.  But  I  beheve  the  fable  does  not  say 
which  had  the  most  conscience,  the  cat  or  the  monkey,  though 
I  am  inclined  to  think  the  former.  But  I  suppose,  Colonel,  you 
DOW  want  money  ?" 

'*  Why,  Clarendon,  you  may  know  something  of  my  situation. 
This  long  pending  suit  against  Wilton  has  embarrassed  me  ; 
nearly  stripped  me  of  funds.  Yet  I  do  not  like  to  give  it  up. 
I  may  have  to  mortgage  my  place  to  relieve  my  situation.  But 
this  is  confidential" — he  continued  in  a  whisper — "  strictly  so." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  Wilton's  wife  left  him  ?" 

*'  In  less  than  two  years  after  their  marriage." 

"  You  had  better  advertise,  to  get  her  testimony." 

"  No,"  said  the  Colonel,  nervously — "let  her  rest  ;  whether 
in  her  grave,  or  in  a  living  tomb." 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  puzzled  by  so  singular  a  reply.  It  re- 
called to  his  mind  rumors  respecting  the  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Wil- 
ton, in  their  early  life. 

"  I  will  examine  the  points  of  yoir  case  thoroughly,"  said 
Mr.  Clarendon,  "  and  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  prove  the  ex- 
istence of  this  last  will.  I  have  never  had  but  one  opinion  of 
the  man.  I  always  suspected  a  fraud.  Why  should  he  make 
such  a  misanthrope  of  himself,  excepting  when  some  hope  of 
gain  draws  him  out  of  his  shell  ?  They  say  that  he  walks  with 
his  arms  folded  for  hours  daily,  like  one  in  impenetrable  gloom. 
His  wife's  strange  disappearance  may  have  somewhat  affected 
him." 

Colonel  Livingston  said  little,  but  his  manner  betrayed  much 
excitement  of  feeling.     He  walked  his  study  with  rapid  strides, 
to  which  place  they  had  resorted  after  their  stroll,  while  his 
face  turned  pale,  and  his  brow  contracted.     Mr.   Clarendon' 
knew  that  there  was  bitter  enmity  between  the  neighbors,  and 


IIS  I  S  O  11  a' S     CillLD. 

sometimes  fancied  that  there  were  hidden  causes,  as  well  as  pe- 
cuniary interests,  which  made  them  foes.  He  found  that  nei- 
ther question  nor  remark  could  draw  from  the  Colonel  any 
opinion  relative  to  the  wife  of  Mr.  Wilton,  whose  elopement, 
years  since,  remained  a  mystery  in  the  neighliorhood,  and  even 
now  a  theme  for  gossip  among  the  old  families  there  residing. 
As  Mr.  Clarendon  had  resolved  to  return  to  the  city  in  the 
night  boat,  he  proposed  to  resort  to  the  parlor,  where  he  se- 
cretly hoped  to  find  Cora.  As  yet  he  had  not  dared  to  manifest 
before  the  Colonel  any  preference  for  his  daughter,  and  although 
he  felt  that  he  had  reached  the  age  that  made  haste  excusable, 
still  he  was  too  politic  to  be  precipitate  in  his  movements, 
towards  securing  the  prize  he  sought.  As  they  stepped  upon 
the  piazza,  Cora  was  reading.  The  twilight  shades  were  deep- 
ening, and  the  moon  cast  her  mellow  light  over  the  earth. 

Tiie  weather  was  extremely  warm,  and  the  air  had  grown 
sultry  since  sundown.  Not  a  breeze  stirred  leaf  or  flower. 
Tlie  mosquitoes  and  gnats  were  busy  in  the  air,  and  much  an- 
noyed Cora.  Still,  her  book  was  absorbing,  and  she  patiently 
brushed  them  aside,  and  fixed  her  eyes  more  intently  on  her 
page.  Frisk,  Cora's  dog,  lay  at  her  feet  with  his  tongue  out 
of  his  mouth,  panting  with  the  heat  and  exhaustion,  from  a 
long  trot  after  a  canine  friend,  from  whom  he  had  just  parted. 
Old  Sophy  stood  at  the  garden  gate,  with  a  high  red  and  yel- 
low turban,  wiping  her  shiny  face  with  the  corner  of  her  blue 
checked  apron,  while  she  mentioned  to  the  scattering  cows,  on 
tlieir  road  home,  that  *'  de  wedder  was  oncommon  warm."  It 
was  such  weather  as  July  not  often  gives  us,  and  which  the 
corn-raisers  love,  to  ripen  their  silken  ears.  As  Mr.  Clarendon 
approached  Cora,  he  brushed  a  leafy  branch  before  her  face, 
and  said — "  You  will  be  eaten  up  here.  Miss  Cora,  Motion  is 
necessary  to  keep  off  these  blood-thirsty  invaders.  If  you  will 
take  a  walk  with  me,  before  I  return,  I  will  protect  you  from  the 
enemy,  and  we  will  enjoy  a  breeze  from  the  water.  You  know 
that  I  have  not  seen  the  grotto  that  you  promised  to  show  me  " 

Cora  exclaimed,  "  I  am  so  exhausted  with  heat,  that  I  shall 
be  delighted  to  go.  Poor  Frisk  is  half  dead  too  !  It  will  yet 
be  a  lovely  eveuing.  Possibly  we  may  have  a  shower  by  and 
by.     Hark  !  I  thought  I  heard  a  distant  roll  of  thunder." 

"  We  will  not  be  absent  long,  Miss  Cora  ;  get  your  hat  and 
mantle,  and  go  with  me — don't  refuse,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon 


•'/■^ 


Isora's    Child.  119 

Cora  hesitated  suddenly,  although  she  had  at  first  assented. 
She  was  sure  that  it  would  rain  before  they  could  return — but 
Mr.  Clarendon  laughed  at  her  fears,  and  pointed  to  the  west- 
ern sky  that  yet  glowed  in  the  twilight.  "  That  cloud  is  pass- 
ing over,  and  will  not  refresh  us  ;  so  we  might  as  well  go  to  the 
river  bank  for  water,"  said  he,  while  he  laid  his  hand  upon  Cora's 
bracelet. 

Cora  was  finally  persuaded,  and  closed  her  book.  She  was 
soon  arrayed,  and  with  a  playful  adieu  to  her  father,  accom 
pauied  Mr.  Clarendon  down  the  avenue.  They  reached  the 
gate,  where  old  Sophy  stood,  though  the  cows  had  all  gone 
home,  and  as  Cora  and  Mr.  Clarendon  passed  her  she  observed 
that  "de  skitters  is  thick  as  niggers  in  Efrica." 

This  remark  caused  the  latter  more  carefully  to  fold  Cora's 
mantle  about  her  neck,  while  he  said,  "I  shall  want  you  to 
sing  for  me  when  we  reach  the  bank." 

"The  water  and  frogs  will  furnish  us  music  enough,  and  if 
we  are  very  romantic,  we  can  listen  to  the  '  melody  of  growing 
things.  " 

"  I  do  not  think  that  my  senses  are  sublimated  enough  for 
such  music,  and  had  rather  any  time  hear  a  sweet  girl  sing, 
than  the  most  energetic  cabbage  grow.  I  believe  that  imagina- 
tion does  not  hold  much  sway  over  my  cranium.  I  have  little 
sympathy  with  poets  or  transcendentalists.     But  I  suppose 

'  Tliere  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 
That  none  but  poets  know.' 

I  have  lived  long  enough,  Miss  Cora,  on  dreams,  and  would  like 
now  a  little  reality." 

"I  believe  I  am  too  fond  of  dreaming,"  said  Cora,  "and 
when  I  come  down  here  by  the  water  alone,  I  become,  some- 
times, wild  with  strange  bewildering  tliouglits." 

"  What  do  you  think  about,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  now  draw- 
ing Cora's  arm  within  his. 

"  Oh  !  of  nothing  that  I  can  speak  of.  Our  existence  seems 
to  me  a  greater  mystery  than  any  other.  I  wonder  why  such 
frail  beings  as  we  are  should  be  put  in  this  beautiful  world  to  live 
and  die,  with  so  little  knowledge  of  ourselves  and  of  the  future. 
Sometimes  I  sit  by  the  side  of  the  waves,  and  watch  tliem 
ripple  upon  the  shore,  and  my  thoughts  seem  just  like  them, 
coming  so  fast,  one  after  the  other,  only  they  are  clear  and 
transparent,  and  mine   indistinct    and    misty,  and    aiming  a1 


J^ 


120  Isoka'sChild. 

something  which  I  can  never  reach.  It  is  this  limit  which 
fetters  my  mind,  that  makes  the  thought  of  another  world 
sometimes  pleasant.  We  shall  there  have,  I  suppose,  no  shore 
to  check  the  waves  of  thought." 

*'  And  what  does  all  this  thought  end  in,  Cora  ?  Does  it 
not  craze  your  mind  to  no  purpose  ?" 

"  Oh  !  such  thought  is  not  unprofitable.  It  is  sweet  to 
know,  if  we  cannot  explore  into  these  great  mysteries,  that 
there  is  One  whose  knowledge  is  infinite,  and  that  He  will 
teach  us,  and  we  can  trust  and  live  in  Him;  and  if  we  are  His 
children,  that  we  are  not,  after  all  our  ignorance,  so  helpless. 
Oh  I  it  is  pleasant,  sometimes,    to  be  alone,  and  think." 

"  You  are  a  good  little  enthusiast,  Cora  ;  but  your  life  leads 
you  more  to  contemplation  than  those  who  live  in  the  city's 
whirl  and  bustle.  You  ought  to  come  to  town,  so  that  fancy 
and  romance  may  not  run  away  with  reason." 

*'  Is  city  life  more  rational  than  country  life  ?"  said  Cora. 

"  Oh  !  city  people  know  how  to  enjoy  themselves  better.  I 
would  rather  cut  off  ten  years  of  my  existence  than  to  Hve  a 
hum-drum  life  in  the  country." 

"I  can't  make  the  comparison,"  said  Cora,  simply,  "as  I 
have  not  known  much  of  society  in  the  world  yet  ;  but  country 
life  does  not  seem  '  hum-drum  '  to  me.  Are  the  people  so  dif- 
ferent in  anything  but  their  dress  and  style  of  living  ?  What 
improves  them  in  the  city,  Mr.  Clarendon  ?" 

"  Action,  Miss  Cora  ;  they  do  not  rust  for  want  of  some- 
thing to  think  of,  something  to  do.  They  are  interested  and 
amused." 

"  I  wonder,  then,  Mr.  Clarendon,  what  the  country  was 
made  so  beautiful  for  ?  Why  didn't  God  put  Adam  and  Eve 
into  a  street  of  brick  houses  and  omnibuses,  instead  of  a  garden 
full  of  flowers  and  animals,  birds  and  running  water.  I  don't 
believe  that  Eve  would  have  liked  the  city  pumps  half  so  well 
as  the  waters  of  the  shming  Euphrates." 

"  They  would,  at  least,  have  needed  better  milliners  if  such 
had  been  their  first  habitation.  I  don't  know  how  to  answer 
your  argument  ;  but  can  only  say  that  Adam  and  Eve  were 
certainly  very  unsophisticated  country  people." 

"  But  they  were  made  in  God's  own  image,  and  must  have 
had  minds  to  appreciate  all  that  was  most  desirable." 

"  Why  then,  wern't  they  satisfied,  instead  of  reaching  after 
something  else.     I  believe  the  big  apple  that  they  wanted  was 


Isoea's    Child.  121 

the  world  after  all,  and  that  they  stole  the  best  typification  of 
it  within  reach." 

"  But  who  showed  it  to  them,  Islr.  Clarendon  ?  Didn't  Satan 
point  it  out  ?  He  then  lives  in  this  big  apple,  the  world,  and 
that  is  why  you  like  it." 

"That  you  think  a  home-thrust,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 
laughing  ;  '*  but  I  must  not  be  beaten  by  a  woman,  so  I  will 
retreat,  with  a  promise  to  show  you,  some  day,  the  attractions 
of  our  city  world  ;  but  it  is  best  for  you  that  you  sleep  some 
time  yet  in  your  clover-patch  ;  unless,"  he  continued,  with 
emphasis,  "you  have  a  guardian." 

"  We  are  now  at  my  grotto,"  exclaimed  Cora.  "  Isn't  it  a 
haunt  fit  for  Queen  Mab  herself  ?  Don't  you  wish  you  were 
king  of  this  elfin  realm  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  that,  like  the  *  Culprit  Fay,'  I  should  love  a 
mortal  faii-y  ;  for  I  might  rather  follow  her  than  ^o 

'  Follow  fast  and  follow  far, 

Even  the  train  of  a  shooting  star.' 

Trees,  stars  and  water  are  admirable  helps  to  a  lanascape,  but 
they  cannot  avail  a  miserable  bachelor  much  in  the  way  of 
sympathy.  Don't  you  think  companionship  more  satisfying 
than  this  bull-frog  music  ?  and  that  a  fine  house  in  town  would 
be  more  agreeable  for  a  shelter  than  the  most  beautiful  tree, 
wreathed  with  honeysuckles,  every  one  a  nest  for  a  humming- 
bird ?" 

"  I  haven't  thought  much  about  such  comparisons.  I  am 
never  lonely,  excepting  that  sometimes  I  feel  the  want  of  a 
brother  or  a  sister.  It  took  me  a  great  while  to  glu^  on  these 
shells.     Don't  they  make  a  beautiful  covering  for  my  temple  ?" 

"  Yery  fanciful.  I  should  think  the  crabs  and  snails  would 
make  a  Mormon  settlement  here." 

"  Well,  don't  you  aduiire  the  sweet  vines  that  hang  over 
it  ?"  said  Cora. 

"I  believe  you  think,  Miss  Cora,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 
"  that  if  I  had  been  placed  in  Eden,  I  should  have  first  paid 
my  homage  to  the  flowers  and  lantern  bugs,  before  making  an 
acquaintance  with  my  charming  hostess." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Cora,  laughingly.  "  I  believe  that  you 
would  have  first  been  picking  the  apples.  But  you  must  think 
iny  Gothic  temple  pretty,  or  I  shall  be  sorry  that  I  came  so 
so  far  to  show  it  to  vou." 

6 


122  Isoka's    Child. 

The  wooded  hills  threw  their  long  shadows  over  the  water, 
"beneath  the  green  and  flowery  slope  on  which  they  stood. 
The  moon  had  emerged  from  the  clouds  which  had  partially 
obscured  it,  and  was  now  shining  in  undimmed  splendor  upon 
the  ripples  near  them.  The  breath  of  the  summer  night, 
though  hot,  was  softly  alluring,  and  they  unconsciously 
lingered,  watching  the  waves  and  fire-flies  that  claimed  their 
home  on  the  verdant  shore.  In  this  quiet  spot,  tenanted  only 
by  the  swallows  that  skimmed  the  surface  of  the  river,  rested 
the  light  structure  erected  by  the  romantic  fancy  of  Cora.  It 
was  covered  v/ith  mosses  of  every  beautiful  variety,  and  glit- 
tered with  brilliant  stones  and  curious  shells.  The  little  white 
spires,  made  of  specimens  of  quartz  and  isinglass,  reflected  in 
the  moonbeams  like  those  of  a  mimic  cathedral,  and  the  old 
moss  clinging  -to  the  sides  of  the  little  temple,  gave  it  all  the 
ruin-like  mystery  that  she  could  have  craved.  It  was  high 
enough  to  admit  her  to  enter,  and  contained  a  rustic  seat  and 
a  cushion  for  Frisk.  Mr.  Clarendon  attempted  an  entrance 
but  was  forced  to  retreat. 

It  had  been  the  combined  work  of  the  gardener  and  herself, 
and  had  occupied  them  several  weeks  in  its  construction. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  would  do  with  your  shell  baby- 
Douse  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Cora,  inquirmgly. 

"  I  would  tear  it  all  down,  and  throw  the  shells  into  the 
river." 

"  Why  ?"  said  Cora,  half  vexed. 

"  Oh,  these  fancies  may  do  for  Italy  or  the  fairy  isles  of  th 
sea  ;  but  on  our  river  banks  they  had  better,  if  built,  be  16i 
for  the  beetles  and  bats.  Who  knows  who  may  come  here  ii 
this  lonely  place  ?" 

"Then,  you  don't  like  my  temple  !"  said  Cora,  with  a  hall 
sigh. 

"  Perhaps,  my  dear  girl,  I  have  not  appreciated  it  ;  but  tha 
cannot  be  said  of  its  architect." 

Cora  now  pleaded  her  father's  solicitude  as  a  reason  fo 
their  return,  and  they  left  the  grotto.     As  they  neared  th- 
cottage,  a  young  man,  with  a  fishing  rod,  passed  near  th« 
ramblers  ;  and  as  Cora  had  preceded  Mr.  Clarendon  a  few 
steps,  he  met  her  alone. 

For  an  instant  the  two  confronted  each  other.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  almost  instantly,  the  knight  of  the  rod  ^jaid,  while  he 


Isora's    Child.  123 

raised  his  cap,  "Good  evening;  are  you  alone?  Allow  mo 
to'' 

But  with  a  deep  blush  Cora  bowed,  and  turned  towards  Mr. 
Clarendon.  The  latter  stepped  forward,  and  was  about 
resenting  what  he  deemed  an  insult,  when  Cora  spoke  hastily, 
and  said,  "  Hush  I  I  beg  of  you."  The  next  moment  the 
young  fisherman  passed  out  of  sight.  *' Cora,"  said  her  com- 
panion, "  was  that  man  insolent  ?'' 

''  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  "  he  thought  that  I  was  alone." 

"  Then  why  did  he  speak,  do  you  know  him  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Clarendon. 

"I  have  seen  him  before  ;  he  has  been  fishing,"  answered 
Cora. 

"  He  is,  perhaps,  the  sportsman?"  Cora  did  not  reply,  and 
Mr.  Clarendon  marvelled  who  this  wood-acquaintance  was, 
that  certainly  seemed  in  favor  with  his  young  friend.  The 
wanderers  were  now  overtaken  by  a  sudden  shower,  and  as  the 
big  droi)S  came  down,  Mr.  Clarendon  drew  the  mantle  of 
Cora  tightly  about  her.  They  hastened  forward,  while  he 
encouraged  Cora,  whose- fears  were  often  excited  by  a  thunder- 
storm. A  vivid  flash  of  lightning  now  gleamed  in  their  faces, 
succeeded  by  a  loud  clap  of  thunder,  which  reverberated 
through  the  hills  in  peal  after  peal.  Cora  grew  pale,  and 
trembled,  but  hastened  forward,  while  the  storm  increased, 
and  the  rain  commenced  pouring  in  torrents.  The  latter  knew 
the  danger  of  seeking  shelter  in  the  woods,  and  stopped 
beneath  a  frame-work  of  timber,  thinking  it  best  here  to 
remain,  until  the  Colonel  sent  them  protection,  or  a  carriage. 
But  they  had  not  long  been  beneath  the  wood-work,  before 
the  young  man  that  they  had  met,  appeared  in  view  with  an 
umbrella  in  his  hand,  which  he  presented  Cora,  and  hastily 
vanished,  unprotected,  in  the  rain. 

Mr.  Clarendon  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  stranger,  except 
as  the  lightning  flashes  revealed  a  pair  of  searching  eyes 
beneath  the  folds  of  a  cloak  which  he  wore  upon  his  reappear- 
ance. They  seemed  to  dwell  alone  upon  Cora,  and  the  hand 
that  raised  the  umbrella  lor  a  moment  touched  hers.  As 
Cora's  low  "  thank  you,"  met  his  ear,  he  said,  "  1  foresaw 
the  storm,  and  knew  you  must  be  overtaken  by  it."  Mr. 
Clarendon  now  knew  that  he  had  procured  the  umbrella  for 
Cora,  9,nd  had  hastened  to  meet  her.  He  was  not  much 
pleased   with    the    adventure,    but   glad    of     the    protectiou 


124  ]soka'sChild. 

aflForded.  They  reached  home  in  safety,  stopping  as  they 
approached  the  cottage  to  take  from  the  gardener  a  shawl  and 
a  pair  of  thicker  shoes  for  Cora,  which  had  there  reached 
them. 

The  shower  had  come  upon  them  so  suddenly,  that  they 
could  hardly  realize  haviog  so  recently  enjoyed  the  moonlight, 
and  were  now  glad  of  a  shelter  within  doors.  Wet  garments 
were  laid  aside,  the  dripping  umbrella  left  in  the  care  of 
Sophy,  while  both  wanderers  had  a  breathless  tale  to  relate 
of  their  surprise,  and  the  luckless  storm  which  had  overtaken 
them.  Old  Sophy  came  in  "  wid  somethin'  hot,  to  keep  out 
de  wet,"  and  the  gardener  stood  with  the  door  wide  open,  to 
know  if  "  they  catched  it  pretty  smart,"  while  the  Colonel 
expostulated  on  their  imprudence,  for  "  he  had  known  all  day, 
that  they  would  have  a  shower  before  night,"  a  warning  which 
he  had  not  thought  of  giving  in  time.  The  little  girl  in  the 
Holland  apron,  was  "  mighty  glad  Miss  Cora  had  got  home," 
and  a  time  they  had  of  it,  dripping,  shaking  themselves,  and 
talking.  And  with  it  all,  no  one  but  Cora  wondered  how  the 
young  man  that  brought  her  the  umbrella  reached  home  in  the 
hard  rain  without  one.  Being  sheltered,  and  fairly  dry,  tlie 
shower  was  pronounced  a  glorious  one  ;  and  now  that  Cora 
was  safely  at  home,  by  her  fond  parent's  knee,  where,  since  a 
child,  she  had  ever  retreated  in  a  thunder-storm,  the  paleness 
passed  from  her  cheek,  and  the  tremor  from  her  frame.  She 
even  looked  out  upon  the  storm,  and  heard  the  musical  patter- 
ing of  the  rain  against  the  windows  and  rustling  trees,  with 
grateful  composure. 

Mr.  Clarendon  looked  at  his  watch,  and  hoped  that  the 
shower  was  almost  over,  for  the  hour  drew  near  when  he 
must  seek  the  boat.  The  Colonel  was  reluctant  to  have  him 
go,  and  Cora  asked  him  to  stay  until  morning  ;  but  Mr. 
Clarendon  now  rarely  allowed  pleasure  to  interfere  with  his 
business  engagements,  though  the  witching  tones,  breathed  in 
tiie  sweet  low  "  don't  go,"  of  Flora,  had  been  sometimes 
potent  to  charm  him  into  forgetfulness  of  all  else.  "Poor 
Flora  !"  his  heart  often  whispered,  "  who  will  be  ever  dear  as 
thou  wert  ?"  But  there  was  another,  whose  heart  he  deemed 
worth  his  wooing,  and  he  trusted,  that  in  time,  his  judgment 
would  rule  his  passion  for  one  that  honor  bade  him  shun. 
Cora,  he  saw,  was  different  from  Flora,  as  the  light  of  day 
contrasts  with  the  brilliancy  of  night,  though  he  believed  the 


Isora's    Child.  V26 

light  of  one  110  purer  than  of  the  other.  He  contrasted 
his  own  home  with  the  cheerful  hearth  of  the  Colonel,  that  he 
was  now  about  leaving,  and  he  saw  Cora  made  up  all  its 
joyousness.  Slie  seemed  to  him  a  treasure  beyond  price,  and 
he  desired  to  secure  her,  ere  the  world  had  tainted  her  pure 
heart,  or  the  love  of  another  had  entered  it.  With  these 
thouu'hts  he  bade  her  adieu. 


CHAPTER  X. 


The  best  enjoymeut  is  half  disappointment 
To  that  we  mean,  or  would  have  in  this  world. 

Bailet's  Festcs. 

TWO  months  now  passed  since  Mr.  Clarendon  first  visited 
Yillacora.  His  persuasive  plausibility  had  ingratiated  him 
much  in  the  good  will  and  favor  of  the  Colonel,  who  wholly 
leaned  upon  him  for  support  and  counsel.  He  had  in  the  mean- 
while aided  him  in  procuring  an  office  that  gave  him  a  small 
income,  and  encouraged  him  to  believe  that  he  w^ould  eventually 
regain  the  estate  of  his  father.  He  had  never  recurred  to  his 
own  hopes,  but  often  spoke  of  the  advantages  of  wealth  and 
position,  and  invariably  left  the  Colonel  in  a  restless,  feverish 
mood — his  mind  bent  on  the  one  aim  of  his  life,  to  recover  his 
old  family  estate,  while  he  harassed  himself  by  the  impression, 
that  by  the  world  he  was  considered  a  disgraced  and  disinherited 
son,  while  his  enemy  and  the  usurper  of  his  fortune  was  rewarded 
for  his  virtue  and  good  deeds  by  his  parent. 

Mr.  Clarendon  knew  that  his  conversation  had  its  influence 
upon  a  man  at  once  ambitious  and  indolent,  aristocratic  and 
poor,  who  possessing  the  consciousness  of  bitter  injury,  still  felt 
the  inability  to  redress  his  wrongs.  He  knew  that  he  was. 
strongly  desirous  of  prosecuting  his  suit,  while  his  limited 
pecuniary  resources  forbade  the  continued  expense. 

Circumstances  had  given  a  different  tone  to  the  character  of 
Edward  Livingston,  than  seemed  natural  to  those  who  had 
known  him  in  earlier  years.  His  prospects  of  wealth  had  been 
wrecked,  and  the  circumstances  which  separated  him,  at  the 
same  time  from  the  affianced  bride  of  his  youth,  gave  a  blight 


126  Isoka's    Child. 

to  his  destiny,  from  which  he  had  never  recovered.  He  consi- 
dered himself  a  cipher  in  the  world,  where  he  expected  to  stand 
pre-eminent,  and  being  proud  by  nature,  in  bitterness  of  spirit 
he  sunk  into  gloomy  seclusion,  a  disappointed  man. 

From  this  grave  of  despondency  he  was  drawn  by  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon, whose  ambition  to  marry  his  daughter,  led  him  to 
interest  himself  in  the  retrieval  of  his  fortune.  The  Colonel 
prided  himself  upon  being  descended  from  Scotch  nobility,  and 
from  a  branch  of  the  Livingston  stock,  untainted  by  low  blood. 
But  it  availed  him  little  in  sustaining  his  position,  and 
so  with  heavy  embarrassments,  he  secluded  himself  from  society, 
while  he  indolently  nursed  the  ever  wakmg  dream  of  recovering 
his  estates. 

But  lethargy  and  gloom  had  begun  to  enwrap  him  as  with  a 
veil,  when  a  renewal  of  intercourse  with  Mr.  Chirendon  roused 
him  from  his  stupor,  in  the  hope  of  securing  his  aid  and  influence. 

After  his  early  disappointment,  which  much  affected  his 
mind,  he  married  a  distant  connection  of  the  name  of  Livings- 
ton. She  possessed  sufficient  wealth  to  give  him,  without  ex- 
ertion on  his  part,  a  home  and  competence  ;  which  limited  means 
afforded  him  a  support  after  her  death.  He  retained,  also, 
with  her  property,  the  family  silver,  handed  down  from  the 
same  line  from  whom  he  claimed  parentage,  and  some  family 
portraits  which  he  highly  prized. 

I[is  old  love  was  too  recent  to  be  soon  rooted  from  his  breast, 
and  although  his  beautiful  bride  was  respected  and  beloved, 
she  never  held  the  same  place  in  his  heart,  and  her  early  death 
made  her  existence  seem  but  as  a  dream.  But  she  left  him  a 
legacy  richly  prized,  an  idol  that  soothed  his  regret,  for  her 
loss.  To  his  little  Cora,  whom  he  named  for  her  mother,  he 
devoted  himself  with  assiduous  care  ;  and  so  indulgently  grati- 
fied iier  whims,  that  but  for  her  sweetness  of  disposition,  she 
would  have  been  early  spoiled.  All  around  her  were  made 
sul)ject  to  her  will  and  infant  caprices,  and  the  stamp  of  her 
tiny  foot  was  law  in  the  nursery  and  parlor.  But  the  little 
Cora  was  not  naturally  imperious  ;  her  willfulness  was  tempered 
by  generosity  and  gentleness,  and  her  love  for  her  father,  the 
ruling  passion  of  her  infancy  and  childhood.  She  was  the  pet, 
too,  of  all  visitors  who  came  to  Yillacora,  while  her  beauty 
was  so  much  praised,  that,  in  her  childhood,  she  would  stand 
on  tip-toe  to  reach  a  mirror  to  see  lier  much  talked  of  curls 
and  dimples,  which  ceremony  she  made  Frisk  also  perform  for 


Isoka's    Child.  127 

the  same  vain  purpose.  As  Cora  g-rew  older,  her  father's 
glouiii  increased.  lie  felt  that  the  time  was  ai)pr.>acliing  when 
she  must  suffer  with  liimself.  His  only  hope  was  that  in  an 
early  and  prosperous  marriage  she  would  escape  the  misery  of 
poverty.  He  endeavored  to  foster  pride  of  family  in  her  cha- 
racter, while  iti  the  very  atmosphere  of  love  which  she  breathed, 
she  was  made  to  feel  how  essential  the  last  was  to  her  exist- 
ence. He  talked  much  to  her  of  her  family,  of  her  noble  de- 
scent, and  endeavored  to  engender  a  spirit  of  dislike  towards 
those  of  a  different  grade.  Colonel  Livingston  was  a  thorough 
aristocrat.  Cora,  in  this  respect,  more  resembled  her  mother, 
who  possessed  true  humility  of  character,  with  sufficient  self- 
respect  to  sustain  herself  with  grace  and  dignity.  She  visited 
the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich,  and  every  one  loved  the  daughter, 
while  many  feared  the  proud,  stately  father. 

As  a  child,  Cora  received  many  chidings  from  the  latter  for 
her  vulgar  tastes,  and  for  awhile  would  affectedly  toss  her  little 
head  when  she  passed  some  poor  villager,  and  even  tell  Frisk 
not  to  go  with  little  vulgar  puppies,  that  he  was  "  an  Ivingston 
doggy  ;"  but  the  native  sweetness  and  affability  of  her  cha- 
racter were  soon  apparent,  and  her  airs  never  offended,  though 
they  might  occasion  a  smile,  w^hiie  the  ladylike,  yet  volatile, 
little  Cora  soon  learned  to  discriminate  for  herself,  and  without 
displeasing  her  father,  secured  the  good  will  of  all  about  her. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  the  Colonel's  residence,  high  back 
on  rising  ground,  surrounded  by  forest  trees  of  the  growth  of 
centuries,  stood  a  dwelling  of  elegant  proportions.  Around  it 
was  a  broad  colonnade,  supported  by  pillars  of  elaborate  work- 
manship. Wings  extended  from  the  main  building,  command- 
ing a  view  unsurpassed  on  the  Hudson.  Its  waters  were  here 
seen  coursing  through  banks  of  brilliant  verdure,  above  which 
rose  hillock,  hill,  and  mountain,  in  undulating  beauty.  Higher 
up,  the  scenery  was  more  sulilime,  more  lofty  in  its  grandeur, 
but  every  feature  essential  to  the  picturesque,  was  seen  from 
the  grand  old  windows  of  Wilton  Park.  Perfectly  trimmed 
slopes  of  vivid  green  once  extended  from  terrace  to  terrace, 
down  to  the  water,  through  wiiich,  gravelled  walks  bordered  by 
boxwood  and  evergreens,  afforded  easy  access  to  the  river  ; 
but  now  these  slopes  were  neglected,  and  were  full  of  under- 
brush, and  in  the  stone  walks  the  grass  was  fast  growing  up, 
and  in  some  places  nearly  covered  the  pathway.  The  remnants 
cf  blooming  shrubs  were  left  about  the  grounds,  but  grew,  evi- 


128  Isoea's    Child. 

dently,  without  care  or  culture.  On  the  more  retired  part  of 
the  place,  where  old  willows  drooped  heavily  to  the  earth, 
were  visible,  under  the  dense  shade,  some  old  marble  moimmenta 
in  an  iron  inclosure.  The  ashes  of  the  Livingston  family  lay 
beneath. 

This  country  seat  was  now  the  home  of  Mr.  Roger  Wilton, 
and  his  sou,  and  went,  generally,  by  the  name  of  "The  Park." 
At  the  period  of  this  tale,  in  one  of  its  apartments  three 
gentlemen  sat  at  breakfast,  taking  their  coffee,  while  they  read 
the  morning  news,  talked  of  Congressional  matters,  or  laughed 
over  an  amusing  anecdote  that  met  the  eye.  Mr.  Wilton  was 
a  lawyer  by  profession,  having  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman, 
with  a  dignified  person  and  reserved  manners.  He  appeared 
to  have  numbered  five-and-forty  years.  His  brother,  who 
bore  the  general  cognomen  of  Uncle  Peter,  was  a  corpu- 
lent, good-humored  bachelor  of  fifty,  with  a  rubicund  visage, 
twinkUng  blue  eyes,  dressed,  as  usual,  in  a  blue  coat  and  buflf 
breeches.  His  occupation  was  betrayed  in  the  trade  and 
barter  schemes  that  seemingly  filled  his  head,  and  who  thought 
of  the  weather  only  as  it  might  affect  the  wave  of  his  pros- 
perity on  land  or  sea,  or  of  internal  improvements,  as  they  in- 
fluenced .the  value  of  his  real  estate.  Tlie  youngest  of  the 
trio  was  the  son  of  the  former,  and  in  the  June  of  his  existence, 
if  not  the  sunniest  of  Junes.  He  resembled  his  father  in  his 
tall  stature  and  erect  bearing,  though  his  face  was  said  to 
be  much  hke  his  mother's  and  her  family.  His  features  had 
a  regular  and  strong  outline,  best  exhibited  in  profile,  with 
eyes  large,  deeply  and  darkly  fringed,  wearing  an  expression 
generally  sad,  but  when  animated,  earnest  and  brilUant.  Like 
that  of  his  mother,  his  brow  was  broad  and  open,  presenting  a 
cast  of  features  rather  severe  than  otherwise.  He  was  not 
generally  called  handsome,  and  was  considered,  by  strangers, 
inaccessible  and  haughty  ;  an  impression  partly  arising  from 
his  reserved  manners,  and  indififtrence  to  pleasing.  There  was 
an  unstudied  carelessness  in  his  air  and  dress,  which  exhibited  a 
disregard  to  forms  and  customs.  His  temperament  was  ardent, 
with  a  fervent  imagination  and  keen  sensitiveness  to  the  trials 
peculiar  to  his  destiny.  He  knew  that  he  was  left  motherless 
in  his  infancy,  but  why  he  was  forsaken  had  been  ever  a  dark 
mystery  to  him.  He  knew  that  his  mother's  elopement  from 
her  home  and  child  had  furnished  a  theme  for  curious  specula- 
tion, but  that  scandal   had  never  tarnished  her  good  name 


I  s  o  R  a'  s    Child.  129 

The  destiny  of  one  whom  fancy  painted  with  every  endearing 
attribute,  caused  hira  hours  of  sadness  and  deep  rumination. 
He  wondered  why  her  history  was  one  on  which  his  father 
preserved  such  unbroken  silence,  and  why  her  loveliness  of 
character  had  never  been  dwelt  upon  by  his  reserved  parent 
during-  his  years  of  infancy,  or  in  his  subsequent  unloved  and 
motherless  boyhood.  Deeper  and  more  interesting  became  the 
question  as  years  passed  on,  and  he  knew  no  answer  to  the 
query  that  burned  in  his  brain,  "  Is  my  mother  dead  or  among 
the  living  ?"  This  was  the  mystery  that  made  older  the  young 
heart  of  Rufus  Wilton — a  mystery  which  was  nursed  by  ques- 
tions and  surmises  from  rumor's  tongue,  which  had  never  ceased 
to  murmur  its  tales  respecting  his  ill-fated  parent. 

But  a  nature  naturally  glad  and  buoyant  was  not  always 
clouded  ;  his  pursuits  were  active,  his  mind  energetic,  and  his 
taste  for  the  beautiful  so  keen  and  absorbing  that  he  rarely 
lacked  some  resource  of  enjoyment,  though  repelled  by  the 
coldness  of  an  unsympathizing  father  from  companionship  at 
home. 

Q'hrougli  the  liberality  of  an  absent  uncle,  a  brother  of  his 
mother's,  he  had  received  a  liberal  education,  and  had  since 
spent  three  years  in  foreign  travel,  and  recently  returned  home. 
He  found  there  no  affectionate  heart  to  greet  him  ;  and,  for  a 
substitute,  was  not  ungrateful  for  the  noisy  good  nature  of  his 
bachelor  uncle,  who,  next  to  his  speculations,  liked  his 
nephew  better  than  any  other  object  of  preference.  Having 
no  pursuit,  he  turned  his  attention  to  gunning,  fishing,  and 
riding  about  the  neighborhood  of  his  father's  place. 

Thus  he  occasionally  fell  in  with  Cora  on  his  rambles  ; 
when,  on  one  occasion,  the  tenderness  of  her  imploring  appeal 
to  spare  the  bii'd  at  which  he  had  aimed,  while  unconscious 
that  she  was  near  him,  completed  the  conquest  that  her  beauty 
had  hitherto  more  than  half  won.  When  he  looked  upon  her, 
her  hands  were  momentarily  clasped,  and  a  crimson  blush 
mantled  her  cheek  at  her  im^mlsive  entreaty. 

He  instantly  low^ered  his  gun,  and  approaching  her,  said, 
"  Have  I  alarmed  you  ?" 

"A  little,"  said  Cora,  confusedly.  ''I  love  to  hear  the 
birds  sing." 

"Then  I  will  never  graze  another  feather  of  them,"  replied 
the  young  man.     "  You  have  my  word." 

Cora  had  been  walking  on  the  border  of  the  woods  adjoining 

6* 


130      •  Isoka's    Child. 

her  father's  place,  and  thought  she  was  alone,  until  her  atten- 
tion was  arrested  by  a  figure  before  her,  with  a  hunting-coat 
and  sporting  equipments,  who  aimed  at  a  pretty  robin  on  a 
branch  within  view.  Cora  knew  all  the  nests  on  the  place, 
and  before  she  considered  that  she  was  addressing  a  stranger, 
had  begged  him  not  to  shoot  the  bird.  Cora  smiled  her 
thanks,  and  turned  to  go,  when  young  Wilton  detained  her, 
and  said  : 

"  I  saw  some  beautiful  violets  by  the  path  I  came  ;  let  me 
get  some  for  you.  I  know  you  like  flowers."  As  the  last 
words  were  spoken,  a  smile  passed  over  his  face,  and  as  he 
offered  them  he  waited  a  moment  to  see  her  look  up.  Her 
eyes  were  raised  as  he  spoke,  and  Rufus  Wilton  thought  them 
bluer  and  more  dewy  than  the  violets.  Cora  did  not  remain 
long,  but  it  took  a  few  moments  to  arrange  the  flowers,  they 
were  such  straggling  things,  with  their  long  stems  ;  even  if  his 
powder-horn  had  not  caught  in  the  fringe  of  her  mantle, 
while  they  together  admired  the  bkie-eyed  violets,  and  he  the 
blue-eyed  beauty. 

But  while  we  have  digressed,  the  Wilton  party  are  yet  at 
the  breakfast  table.  Conversation  had  merged  into  neighbor- 
hood gossip,  on  the  part  of  uncle  Peter  and  his  nephew  ; 
the  elder  brother  having  resorted  t_o  a  newspaper  for  enter- 
tainment. 

"  Rufus,"  said  the  uncle,  "  I  saw  Sapp's  daughter  last  night. 
The  old  fellow  is  rich.  How  would  you  like  to  handle  his 
doubloons,  eh,  Rufe  ?  Sally,  you  know,  will  be  his  sole  heiress. 
A  fit  will  take  him  off  some  day." 

"Yes.  Miss  Sally  is  a  showy  girl  ;  sparkles  like  a  Falls 
river  diamond." 

"Like  the  real  stun.  T  say,  Rufe,  she'll  own  a  plantation 
of  darkies  in  Cuby.  If  I  was  an  extravagant  young  scamp 
like  you,  I  shouldn't  be  long  calculating  the  chances  of  that 
speculation." 

"  By  what  rule  would  you  figure  it  up  ?"  said  Rufus,  balanc- 
ing his  spoon  on  his  cup.  "Weigh  her  on  a  pair  of  hay- 
scales,  I  suppose,  first  ;  then  ascertain  if  the  proportion  of  the 
darkies  to  the  pound,  will  pay  for  the  expense  of  supporting 
her  and  her  canine  pets.  Is  this  the  way  you  would  '  calculate 
the  speculation  ?' " 

"  Why,  that  wouldn't  be  a  bad  way  to  heft  her — she's  solid 
— nothing    flimsy-flamsy    about   her — something   tangible— a 


Isoka's    Child.  131 

foundation  to  build  on  that  won't  break  nor  melt — quantity 
as  well  as  quality.  Hair  as  black  as  a  crow's  tail,  as  the  poet 
says  ;  and  eyes  like  a  lackawaxe  tea-caddy." 

"  You  seemed  to  have  scanned  the  attraction  of  the  young 
lady  narrowly,  but  the  likeness  of  the  crow  extends  further, 
I  believe,  than  her  tresses.  Hasn't  her  voice  the  same 
melody  ?" 

"  Crow  or  snipe,  she  is  a  pretty  bird,  and  you'd  fare  well 

to    trap    her.       Let    me    see,    she'll   be    worth" The 

old  uncle  seemed  lost  in  a  mathematical  problem. 

"  Your  time  and  trouble,"  said  Rufus,  while  he  rose  from 
the  table. 

"  Well,  well,  don't  go,  E,ufe.  Have  you  seen  Livingston's 
darter  since  you  come  back  ? — she's  a  cunning  little  duck 
of  a  thing — light  as  a  sparrow,  and  plump  as  a  partridge — 
poor  though — never  will  be  worth  the  first  brass  cent." 

"What's  that  about  Livingston  ?"  said  Mr.  Roger  Wilton, 
throwing  down  his  paper. 

"  Oh,  nothing  ;  your  boy  and  I  was  having  a  talk  about 
the  neighborhood  gals,  Sapp's  and  Livingston's." 

"  I  hear  that  Mr.  Clarendon  is  eyeing  the  advantages  of  that 
connection,"  said  the  brother.  "  I  wasn't  aware  that  the 
gentleman  was  of  so  domestic  a  turn.  A  dance  he'll  lead  a 
wife." 

"  Like  a  Scotch  reel,  first  with  one  partner,  then  with 
another,"  said  uncle  Peter. 

The  young  gentleman  now  opened  the  door  to  go  ;  but  a 
wink  and  nod  from  the  latter,  drew  him  laughing  to  his 
elbow.  The  father  was  now  in  a  window-seat  behind  a  news- 
paper. 

The  uncle  then  drew  out  of  his  pocket  various  articles,  first, 
a  bandanna  handkerchief,  with  gingerbread  squares  stamped 
upon  it.  Then  an  old  leather  account-book,  a  round  snuff-box, 
and  a  roll  of  tobacco,  and,  lastly,  a  piece  of  newspaper,  which 
he  untied,  carefully  removing  the  twine,  exhibiting  to  view 
a  lock  of  black  hair,  which  he  held  under  the  table,  lest 
his  brother  should  see  it.  Then  smoothing  over  his  knee  the 
shining  tress,  gave  a  vsideway  squint  to  Rufus,  who  was 
attempting  to  suppress  a  laugii,  while  he  whispered  "  She  gave 
it  to  me,  but  it  gets  mussed  up  in  my  pocket,  and  I'm 
afraid  will  hang  out  sometime,  when  I'm  careless.  You  keep 
it." 


132  Isora's    Child. 

Rufas  shook  his  head,  and,  in  spite  of  precaution,  gave  a 
shout  of  merriment  which  much  disconcerted  uncle  Peter,  who 
had  one  eye  constantly  on  the  newspaper  in  front  of  him,  while 
in  his  right  hand,  by  one  end,  he  held  the  streaming  lock, 
much  as  he  would  a  live  eel  that  he  was  atraid  would  squirm 
away  from  him.  Uncle  Peter  gave  a  beseeching  look  to  his 
nephew,  seeming  to  beg  of  him  to  dispose  of  the  hair,  which 
was  abundant  enough  for  a  small  periwig,  and  now  that  it  was 
suspended,  difficult  to  replace  without  observation  ;  but  Rufus 
was  merciless,  and  left  his  gallant  uncle  to  suffer  the  conse- 
quences of  his  imprudence,  his  bachelor  relative  meanwhile 
stuffing  tobacco,  snuff-box,  twine,  and  hair  promiscuously  in 
his  pocket,  over  which  he  tucked  the  weed  perfumed 
bandanna. 

Soon  after  the  nephew  returned  for  his  riding-whip.  The 
same  moment  uncle  Peter  emerged  from  the  stairway  lead- 
ing to  the  kitchen,  a  strong  smell  of  burnt  hair  following 
him. 

"  What's  that  smell  ?"  said  Mr,  Wilton,  the  elder,  holding 
his  cambric  to  his  nose. 

"The  cat's  singed  her  back,  that's  all,"  said  uncle 
Peter,  turning  red  and  warm,  while  he  busied  himself  with  his 
dickey  at  the  glass. 

Rufus  came  at  the  moment  forward  and  whispered,  "  I'll 
tell  her,  before  night,  how  you  treat  her  tokens,  and  then 
see  if  you  get  a  chance  to  '  singe  the  cat's'back '  again." 

Uncle  Peter  looked  some  wise,  and  some  savage,  whereupon 
Rufus  escaped. 

After  the  latter  went  out,  Mr.  Wilton  addressed  his  mercan- 
tile brother  in  his  usual  dignified,  half  sarcastic  tones,  while  he 
said  : 

"  Peter,  your  matrimonial  schemes  are  laid  so  deep  they  can 
hardly  fail  of  success.  If  the  boy  will  marry,  this  young  lady 
would  make  a  prudent  connection  for  him — ailbrd  some  compen- 
sation for  the  incumbrance.  I  have  balanced  the  matter  in  my 
mind,  and  think  that  her  maintenance  would,  with  her  means, 
leave  a  surplus  in  his  hands,  and  by  strengthening  his  income, 
prevent  no  encroachments  on  my  estate,  which  I  do  not  wish 
to  see  squandered.  I  approve  of  the  connection,  and  Capt. 
Sapp  is  of  the  same  mind,  therefore  I  wish  no  jesting  to  occur 
in  his  presence  respecting  the  lady.  Respecting  this  pretty 
.paragon.  Miss  Livingston,  I  have  not  the  honor  of  heracquaini- 


Isoka's    Child.  133 

auce,  therefore  cannot  say  whether  she  wears  wings  or 
not." 

Mr.  Wilton  smiled,  but  TJncle  Peter  was  in  some  doubt  as  to 
the  amiability  conveyed  in  his  expression,  but  inwardly  chuck- 
ling at  his  owri  luck  in  concealing  Miss  Sally's  hair,  and  the 
shrewdness  with  which  he  had  escaped  the  derision  of  his  brother, 
bowed  and  hemmed  assent  to  his  august  relative's  opinions,  and 
soon  after  left  to  attend  to  his  mercantile  affairs. 

There  was  no  congeniality  between  thp  brothers  ;  they  were 
by  nature  widely  separated,  and  had  been  differently  educated 
and  reared. 

As  the  door  closed  after  Uncle  Peter,  the  latter  laid  down 
his  paper,  when  the  following  reflections  passed  through  his 
mind  :  ''  No  intelligence  has  ever  been  received  from  the  absent 
witness  ;  if  he  never  appears,  all  is  for  ever  safe — lucky  that 
vixen  wife  of  mine  never  saw  it,  that  I  had  too  much  wit  to 
trust  a  woman."  He  then  passed  hours  in  absorbing  thought, 
during  which  his  brow  was  knit,  save  when  an  occasional 
gleam  of  triumph  came  over  his  face.  He  paced  room  after 
room  of  his  elegant  home,  with  the  tread  of  one  whose  mind 
guides  not  the  footsteps.  He  looked  through  the  ample  win- 
dows, which  opened  upon  the  colonnade  of  the  dwelling,  and 
motionless,  with  folded  arms,  surveyed  the  extensive  grounds, 
which  spread  over  rich  wooded  and  pasture  lands,  where  lofty 
trees  cast  their  shade,  possessing  in  their  venerated  associations 
so  much  value  in  the  estimation  of  his  neighbor  Colonel 
Livingston. 

''Better,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  to  be  the  owner  of  this 
estate  than  a  beggar,  an  humble  dependent  on  the  charities  of 
this  benevolent  world,  or  the  bounty  of  a  Livingston.  Here 
scorn  and  bitter  sarcasm  breathed  on  the  lip  of  Roger  Wilton. 
Then  dark  thoughts  settled  over  his  mind,  when  his  cheek 
paled,  and  his  stern  lips  grew  white. 

A  servant  enters  his  apartment,  and  announces  the  arrival 
of  a  visitor.  Mr  Wilton  was  again  tlie  cautious,  re.-^erved, 
uncommunicative  man.  Courteous  he  might  be  called,  but 
never  cordial.  The  hollow  word  of  welcome  came  from  his 
lips,  but  never  rose  from  his  heart.  But  for  his  son,  'The 
Park'  would  have  been  rarely  frequented,  and  during  his  ab- 
sence had  been,  but  for  his  servants,  a  solitary  abode.  Austere, 
cold,  and  cynical  as  he  was  deemed  by  his  fellow  men,  he  was 
considered  correct  in  his  dealings,  and  sagacious  and  far-seeing 


134:  Is  oka's    Child. 

in  all  moneyed  transactions  ;  and  a.s  his  lugubrious  moods 
affected  no  one  but  himself,  he  escaped  with  but  little  criticism. 

He  had  little  intercourse  with  his  own  sex,  and  the  society 
of  women  he  shunned  as  a  pestilence.  He  aimed  to  preserve 
a  character  for  strict  integrity,  and  was  never  known  to  deviate 
from  the  moral  code  by  which  he  professed  to  be  governed. 

He  was  proud  of  a  son  for  w-hom  he  never  exhibited  a  ray 
of  affection  ;  and  as  his  heir,  watched  his  career  with  interest. 
^s  the  future  inheritor  of  his  estate  he  regarded  him  with 
consideration,  and  w^as  not  indifferent  to  the  estimation  in 
which  he  was  held  by  others. 

After  Rufus  had  left  his  father  and  uncle,  he  went  to  the 
stable  for  his  horse  for  a  ride.  Here  a  conversation  ensued 
with  Jerry,  the  groom,  on  the  beauty  and  speed  of  Charlie, 
and  a  colloquy  respecting  matters  in  general,  all  of  which  do 
not  interest  the  reader,  and  which  ended  in  *'  Away  !  away  1 
Charlie." 


CHAPTER    XI. 

Oh,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life, 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Moore. 

BUT  half  a  mile,  my  reader,  from  Yillacora,  you  will  find 
Goody  Burke's  cottage  ;  and  though  you  may  be  fas- 
tidious about  your  acquaintances,  it  is  important,  on  some 
accounts,  that  the  introduction  should  be  made.  She  has  a 
neat  little  cot,  where  clover  scents  the  air,  and  where  wild 
flowers  grow  as  luxuriantly  as  in  a  Western  prairie.  But 
clovers  and  buttercups  are  not  all  the  children  of  Flora  that 
the  old  dame  has  about  her  ;  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers  stand 
around,  like  sentinels  on  parade  ;  and  there  is  a  regiment  of 
them.  Daffodils,  or  '  daffy's,'  as  the  old  lady  calls  them, 
glitter  like  gold  in  the  sun  ;  while  marigolds  and  poppies  seem 
striving  to  thrust  their  crimson  and  yellow  faces  in  the  old 
dame's  low  window^s.  Such  disorderly  arrangement  might 
have  indicated  a  want  of  system  in  the  wqdow^'s  horticultural 
taste;  but  she  says  that  she    has   had  the   "rheumatis"   all 


Isoka's    Child.  135 

winter,  and  should  have  "died  off"  if  it  hadn't  have  been  for 
little  Cory  Livingston  that  cured  her  up,  and  so  she  says, 
"  things  will  run  to  waste,  come  what  will."  She  now  sits, 
wearing  a  cap  white  as  her  daisies,  a  blue  checked  gown,  a 
brown  Holland  apron,  and  silver  spectacles  across  her  nose,  in 
a  big  arm-chair  in  the  doorway.  A  yellow  cat  lies  at  her  feet, 
and  by  her  bed,  covered  with  a  blue  and  white  quilt,  stands  a 
little  table,  with  an  old  clasped  Bible  upon  it.  ^^ear  her,  on 
a  low,  wicker  chair,  Cora  Livingston  sits,  opening  a  basket  full 
of  nice  bits  for  the  old  woman. 

"  See  here,  Goody,"  she  said,  "  see  what  I  have  brought 
you  ;  throw  aside  your  knitting,  and  help  me  unpack.  Here's 
a  nice  stool  for  your  feet  ;  but  first  I'll  open  the  window  to  let 
in  the  smell  of  your  flowers." 

"  Oh,  child,  I'm  a  poor  critter  anyway.  That  cat's  in  the 
basket,  as  sure  as  her  name  is  Bess — scat — scat.  My  posies 
are  growin'  the  way  God  lets  'em  ;  they  sows  their  own  seeds < 
and  huddles  up  their  own  fashion.  I  hain't  got  much  but 
some  feather-few  and  tanzy,  and  a  trifle  of  dill  ;  the  neighbors 
like  it  for  go-to-meetin'  seed,  when  they  are  outer  orange  peels 
My  sweet  peases  didn't  come  up,  and  my  ragged  robins  wilted, 
and  the  marigooles  poke  indoors  as  much  out.  The  grass  has 
run  inter  the  stuns,  and  the  gate  slams  and  bangs,  cause  the 
old  flatiron's  broken  off  the  chain  ;  but  my  old  back's  so  lame 
I  can't  mend  up,  nor  do  nothing.  0,  Lord  o'  mercy,  the 
grass  will  run  over  my  grave  'fore  apple  time." 

"  Oh,  Goody,  you  are  always  groaning.  Cheer  up  and  come 
here." 

Cora  spread  out  the  contents  of  her  basket  on  the  table. 
"  I've  come  to  talk  to  you,"  she  said,  "  so  you  must  be  good 
natured.  You've  a  great  many  nice  flowers.  I  want  you  to 
give  me  some  slips  of  that  yellow  rose-bush.  You  will  be  out 
scratching  in  your  flower-bed  soon.  Here's  some  tea  for  you — 
shall  I  make  you  a  cup  ?" 

"  If  you  can,  my  old  back's  so  lame.  The  tea-kettle  lid's 
off,  and  so  I  puts  my  old  man's  profile  on  instead  ;  it  was  cut 
after  he  lost  his  hair,  and  them  nigger  cuts  ain't  got  no  'spres- 
sion  about  'em  ;  steaming  won't  hurt  it,  the  back's  tinned. 
Lord  child,  you  can't  lift  it.  Get  out  the  way,  Bess,  you'r 
always  under  foot.  There,  I've  got  it  on,  spite  o'  my  back. 
You've  bro't  a  lot  o'  things  Frisk  lugged  it,  I  'spose.  I  thought 
so,  by  Bess's  backing  up.  I  hope  he  didn't  put  his  nose  in.  Here's 


136  Isora's    Child. 

chicken,  sugar,  tea,  jellj,  wine,  and  pickles,  and  some  peppe;' 
vinegar.   It's  strange  you  couldn't  ha'  knowed  what  I  wanted/' 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  that  you  wanted  anything,  Goody," 
said  Cora. 

"  Lor',  here's  everything — thousands  of  it  ;  but  I  kinder 
tho't  some  salt  fish  would  taste  good." 

Salt  fish  was  the  last  thing  that  Cora  had  thought  of,  and 
didn't  like  to  think  of  anything  so  unsavory  in  her  sweet 
basket  ;  but  she  promised  to  send  some  as  soon  as  she  reached 
home. 

She  soon  made  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a  piece  of  toast  for  the 
lame  old  woman,  and  after  giving  some  milk  to  the  cat,  that 
kept  purring  around  her  feet,  she  seated  herself  with  her 
needle  and  cambric  by  the  side  of  Goody,  to  talk  to  her. 

She  had  thrown  aside  her  hat,  and,  after  smoothing  back 
her  hair  with  her  fingers,  commenced  conversation. 

'*  Tell  me  more,"  said  she,  "  about  that  lady  that  ran 
away  from  her  husband  so  long  ago — that  beautiful  Mrs. 
Wilton.  Do  you  think  she  is  living  ?  Do  tell  me  all  about 
her.     Everybody  says  that  you  know." 

"  Oh,  it's  so  long  ago,  child — she  was  just  such  a  chirk  thing 
as  you  be,  when  I  knew  her,  but  her  hair  and  eyes  was 
browner  than  yours — not  so  much  like  my  copper  tea-kettle 
wlien  it's  bright,  but  she  had  as  much  on't,  only  she  wound  it 
in  long  braids,  like  old  time  picturs,  round  her  head — it  didn't 
fly  about  so  crazy  like  as  yours.  She  was  taller,  too,  than  you 
be,  and  bigger.  Her  eyes  used  to  shine,  when  she  talked 
about  Ned  Livingston.  Lord,  child,  that's  your  pa  now  ;  how 
things  does  come  about  !  But  her  spark  went  oflf,  and  some 
how  she  married  that  old  hypocrite  down  yonder — but  his  boy 
is  likely,  all  owin'  to  his  mother.  Well,  but  he's  grown  up 
now  ;  that  was  near  three-and-twenty  year  ago,  and  a  likely 
boy  he  is,  just  like  his  beautiful  mother,  and  I  hated  to  have 
him  go  off  to  furrin  parts." 

"  Was  she  young  ?"  said  Cora,  looking  up  under  her  wet 
eyelashes." 

"  Young  and  pretty  as  a  moruin'  glory  ;  but  a  red  tulip 
didn't  look  prouder  than  she  did,  when  she  tossed  back  her 
head  full  of  slick,  shiny  hair,  and  put  out  her  red  lip  when  she 
warn't  pleased  ;  but  then  she  smiled  so  sweet,  that  nobody 
minded  her  pouts,  and  the  fellows  were  glad  if  she'd  look  at 
'em  any  way." 


Child.  137 

"Did  papa  love  her  too,  Goody  ?" 

"  Lord,  child  !  what  a  question  !  Your  pa  got  married  to  a 
nice,  beautiful  woman,  and  he's  an  old  man,  e'ea  a'  most — what 
matter  is  it  what  gals  he  liked  ?" 

Cora  thought  that  she  would  like  to  know  all  about  it. 

''You've  seen  Rufus,  I  'spose,"  the  old  woman  went  on, 
"  he  comes  to  see  me  when  he  goes  about  gunnin'  and  fishin' — 
I  wish  he'd  get  some  steady  business.  He  acts  sorter  lost, 
and  don't  dress  slick  as  he  might,  but  he  don't  care,  so  he's 
easy  and  clean,  I  don't  like  them  blowsy  things  he  wears — 
There  he  is  I"  she  exclaimed.  **  Miss  Cory,  I  was  with  her 
when  Rufus  was  born,  but  she  warn't  glad  if  'twas  her  first 
young  'un.  I  took  care  of  her,  and  where  do  you  think  Squire 
Wilton  was  all  the  time  ?  Why,  gone  to  the  city,  without  a 
squint  at  the  boy,  and  she  might  a-died  for  all  he  knew  or 
cared.  Give  me  my  haudkercher — If  that  cat  ain't  lyiu' 
on't  ! 

"Wall,  when  the  baby  was  along  about  teething  time,  she 
(the  old  woman  now  leaned  forward  and  whispered)  just 
slipped  off,  and  everybody  had  their  own  stories  to  tell,  but 
little  they  knew  about  it — they  didn't  get  much  out  o'  me. 
Some  said  she  was  crazy,  and  some  said  she  liked  her  old 
spark,  and  some  said  the  Squire  worried  the  life  out  of  her  ; 
but  she  didn't  tell  me  to  tell  all  I  knew,  and  I  didn't  know  as 
it  was  anybody's  business  in  particular,  and  so  I  let  'em  guess 
what  they  could,  for  all  me.  But  I  know  this,  she  warn't  one 
to  be  trod  on.  Well,  she  left  her  baby,  and  slie  gave  me  a 
heap  o'  money  first,  and  said  the  Lord  would  bless  me  if  I 
took  care  of  it  ;  but  when  I  took  him  out  o'  the  cradle,  after 
she  left,  his  prettiest  curl  right  on  his  forehead  was  gone — it 
made  me  cry  to  think  how  she  felt  when  she  clipped  it — well, 
if  she  didn't  see  him  again,  it  wasn't  my  fault.  But  I  suppose 
she's  dead  'fore  now.  After  she  went  away,  Squire  Wilton 
made  me  move  off  in  a  desput  hurry  one  day,  so  that  I  lost 
half  my  cheeny  packin'  it.  Give  me  my  specs.  He'll  ride 
that  horse  to  death." 

At  this  moment  Rufus  Wilton  entered  the  wicket  gate,  saying, 
"  Good  morning  Goody — your  old  gate  slams  as  bad  as  ever. 
Any  rest  for  wearied  bones  in  your  cot  ?" 

"  I  guess  'twont  be  the  first  time  I've  rested  your  bones,  and 
trotted  you  inter  the  bargain,"  said  the  old  woman,  hobbling  to 
the  door,  forgetting  her  "  rheumatiz.'' 


138  Is  oka's    Child. 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  man  laughing,  "  I've  had  the  trotting 
this  morning  from  Charly — so  now  I'll  take  the  rest."  As  he 
spoke,  he  came  into  the  porch,  with  his  cap  in  one  hand  and 
riding-whip  in  the  other,  wiping  his  forehead,  from  which  the 
morning  breeze  had  laid  back  his  hair,  while  he  made  some 
ejaculation  on  the  heat  of  the  morning. 

Cora  blushed  deeply  as  he  entered,  when  with  a  bow  and 
smile,  he  for  the  first  time  accosted  her  as  Miss  Livingston. 

"  I  have  not  brought  you  the  fish  I  promised,"  said  he  turn- 
ing to  the  old  lady.     "  Have  had  bad  luck  lately." 

"  Oh  !  Rufu.s,"  said  she,  "  why  don't  you  go  to  work  ? — I 
never  knew  a  man  or  boy  that  waited  on  a  fish-pole  all  day, 
come  to  any  good  end." 

"  Sad  prophecy,  Goody  !  what  do  you  think.  Miss  Living- 
ston ?" 

''  I  think  the  fishes  come  to  a  bad  end  at  least,"  answered 
Cora  with  a  smile, 

Rufus  shook  his  head,  and  laughingly  declared  that  he  feared 
that  he  was  getting  into  bad  repute  with  his  idle  habits.  He 
then  went  into  an  ironical  discussion  on  the  benefits  arising  from 
sporting  in  general,  which  the  old  woman  took  literally,  much 
to  Cora's  amusement,  especially  when  he  declared  his  intention 
of  building  a  fishing  hut  by  the  water,  that  he  might  sleep 
there,  and  be  up  early  to  get  a  bite. 

"Oh  !  Rufus  !  Rufus  !''  cried  the  old  woman,  "what  are 
you  coming  to  !" 

"  Don't  look  so  alarmed.  Goody,"  said  the  young  man,  taking 
the  old  yellow  cat  up  by  her  fore  paws,  while  he  looked 
significantly  at  Cora.  "  My  reformation  has  already  commenced; 
don't  you  hear  the  birds  sing  more  gaily  than  they  did  ? — the 
robins  especially;  what  do  you  say  ?"  he  continued,  addressing 
Cora. 

"  I  have  not  heard  your  gun  lately,"  she  replied,  while 
she  ])ut  on  her  straw  gipsy. 

Wilton  rose  as  Cora  bade  the  old  lady  good  morning,  and 
told  her  that  he  had  found  a  new  path  through  the  woods,  and 
that  it  was  much  pleasanter  than  the  road,  and  begged  the 
pleasure  of  showing  it  to  her. 

Cora  did  not  decline,  and  they  walked  out  together.  The 
'  new  path '  was  not  far  distant,  and  as  Wilton  assured  Cora 
that  it  was  the  pleasantest  and  shadiest,  she  was  willing  to  be 
guided  through  it.     It  might  appear  strange  that  she  should 


Is  OR  a's    Child.  139 

so  readily  accept  the  civilities  of  a  stranger,  bat  some  indefina- 
ble magnetism  had  done  more  in  the  way  of  an  intn'.duction 
than  the  courteous  civilities  of  a  thousand  go-betweens.  No 
gallantry,  flattery,  or  even  civil  words,  had  been  the  passport 
of  the  young  man  to  her  favor,  but  her  frame  had  thrilled  at 
the  glance  of  his  large  eyes,  and  the  tones  into  which  his  voice 
seemed  to  change  as  he  addre?  -i^  her,  like  chain  lightning 
played  on  the  chords  of  her  heart,  and  electrified  her  being. 
They  soon  found  the  shady  road  that  wound  into  the  deep, 
green  woods,  and  Cora  never  knew  until  now  how  she  4iiight 
have  been  covered  with  burs  and  thistles  but  for  the  vigilance 
of  her  companion  ;  how  surely  she  would  have  been  thrown 
from  many  a  rolling  log  but  for  the  strong  hand  that  held  her 
own  so  securely,  while  she  waved  like  a  fairy  to  and  fro,  as  her 
light  step  bounded  from  one  to  another — for  the  '  new  path  ' 
which  her  escort  had  chosen  was  no  path  at  all,  but  simply  a 
way  that  squirrels  might  have  taken  on  a  chestnut  hunt.  But 
then  she  might  never  have  known,  but  for  her  companion, 
where  the  prettiest  wild  flowers  grew,  such  as  she  could  never 
have  found  alone,  scarcely  knowing  how  much  their  value  was 
enhanced  by  the  presentation  of  the  giver.  Neither  did  she 
know  how  delicious  was  a  ramble  in  the  woods  at  that  hour, 
so  much  more  so  than  by  the  water  at  moonlight.  The  way 
they  took  was  sequestered,  and  led  deeply  into  the  wood. 
Wilton  did  not  offer  Cora  his  arm,  but  had  enough  to  do,  in 
his  attentions,  at  single  file,  only  that  he  did  not  go  as  the  In- 
dians do,  straight  ahead.  Their  first  course  was  through  a 
grove  of  everg4-eens,  where  the  balsam  fir  and  spruce  make  the 
air  balmy  and  sweet ;  they  picked  the  buds,  and  gathered 
some  of  the  freshest  and  greenest  shoots,  which  were  good  to 
twirl  in  their  fingers,  if  for  nothing  more. .  Then  they  came  to 
ascending  ground,  which  overlooked  the  distant  hills,  and  the 
tree-tops  waving  in  the  mid-day  breeze  ;  then  Cora  followed 
Wilton  down  a  ledge  of  rocks  like  steps,  and  here  she  would 
assuredly  have  fallen,  but  for  the  guardianship  of  her  careful 
guide  !  Strange  that  she  was  so  much  more  helpless  than  ten 
years  before,  when,  like  a  bounding  fawn,  she  had  jumped  from 
crag  to  crag  I  But,  with  the  aid  of  her  vigilant  friend,  she 
came  safely  into  the  green  shade  below,  where  a  crystal  brook 
ran  along  by  their  side.  It  was  such  a  sweet,  cool  spot  here, 
under  the  tall  trees,  through  which  the  sun  came  in  golden 
itreaks  !     And  the  water  was  so  limpid  and  clear  that  they 


140  I  s  o  R  A '  s    Child. 

were  tempted  to  tread  each  brilliant  stone  tbat  lay  bathed  in 
the  gushing  flood.  Here  they  rested  from  their  fatigue.  The 
shade  was  so  dense  that  the  green  was  almost  gloom  ;  even 
the  little  birds  were  still  in  their  leafy  nests.  The  sun  was  now 
high  in  the  heavens,  but  they  knew  nothing  of  its  sultry  beams, 
and  scarcely  saw  the  clouds  that  hung  motionless  in  the  skies. 
Cora  sat  down  on  an  old  stump  that  Wilton  had  found  for  her; 
but  consciousness  that  she  was  imprudent  in  lingering,  caused 
her  soon  to  rise  and  hasten  forward.  She  felt  that  she  had  al- 
ready loitered  too  long,  and  that  she  ought  to  have  takeu 
the  old  road.  But  Cora  was  only  sixteen,  and  in  her  pure- 
hearted  guilelessness,  placed  confidence  in  one  that  seemed  so 
kind  and  good.  There  was  certainly  nothing  that  Wilton  ne- 
glected for  her  comfort  ;  and  she  believed  he  would  almost  have 
carried  her  himself,  if  she  had  needed  such  assistance.  And' 
then  he  amused  her  by  his  comments  on  all  she  did  and  said, 
and  seemed  so  much  at  home  in  her  old  favorite  haunts,  and 
liked  as  well  as  she  did  to  scramble  in  uncertain  places,  that 
she  felt  as  if  they  had  been  always  together,  and  that  it  was 
quite  right  that  they  should  be. 

But  llufus  Wilton  knew  the  wild  path  as  well  out  of  the 
woods  as  into  it,  though  he  was  more  loth  to  find  it.  He 
never,  in  all  the  drawing-rooms  of  city  life,  could  have  become 
so  well  acquainted  with  the  beautiful  little  sylph,  that  he  felt 
he  could  like  to  take  a  trip  through  life  with.  He  had  never 
been  so  happy  ;  and  neither  in  Europe  nor  America  had  he 
ever  found  so  fascinating  a  wood  nymph  as  the  sweet  girl  that 
bade  him  adieu,  her  hands  full  of  wild  flowers,  at  the  gate  of 
the  cottage. 

Cora  was  soon  in  the  presence  of  her  father.  She  had  left 
home  early,  and  it  was  now  past  their  hour  of  dining.  She 
came  in  with  a  bounding  step,  her  glad  face  brilliant  with  the 
glow  of  exercise  and  happiness.  She  was  met  by  Sophy  with 
innumerable  questions  about  "  master's  dessert,"  and  the  dinner, 
which  she  had  totally  forgotten,  and  complaints  of  the  "  lictle 
girl,"  who  had  broke  dishes,  spilt  milk,  and  been  "  sassy  into  the 
bargain,"  during  her  absence.  That  little  Judy  was  a  great 
trial,  as  well  as  a  little  "help,"  she  often  realized,  but  she  vvas 
in  such  an  amiable,  pleasant  mood,  that  she  sweetly  said, 
"  ^>ver  mind,  Sophy,  Judy  will  learn  better  by-and-by."  She 
now  thought  of  her  neglect,  and  of  the  cause  of  it.  Had  she 
come  by  the  old  way,  she  would  have  been  at  home  in  season, 


Isoka's    Child.  141 

and  all  her  domestic  duties  been  performed,  and,  perhaps, 
saved  some  trouble  between  Sophy  and  Judy,  who  never  did, 
and  she  feared  never  would,  agree.  But  Cora  had  not  yet  felt 
the  worst  consequences  of  her  imprudence. 

Her  father  accosted  her  with  anxious  inquiries  relative  to 
her  long  stay.  "  I  have  been  quite  alarmed  about  you,"  said 
he.  "  Goody  must  have  new  food  for  gossip  ;  or,  has  it  taken 
you  so  long  to  pick  those  straggling  weeds.  You  must  have 
wandered  far.  Pray,  w^hcre  did  you  find  your  flowers  ?  Not 
on  the  road  to  Mrs.  Burke's." 

"  Oh,  no,  papa,"  she  replied,  *'  I  came  a  new  way  home.  I 
didn't  think  that  it  would  take  me  so  long,  it  was  shadier 
and  " 

Cora  stopped  ;  she  felt  awkardly  about  explaining  how  she 
was  induced  to  return  by  a  new  path,  and  yet  did  not  intend 
to  conceal  anything. 

"  You  were  imprudent,  my  daughter,  to  come  alone  through 
the  wood." 

Cora  re-arranged  her  flowers,  and  was  still  silent  ;  but  at 
length  said,  "  Some  one  from  Mrs.  Burke's  showed  me  the 
way." 

*'  One  of  the  neighborhood  boys,  I  suppose  ?  Yery  impru- 
dent, my  daughter,  quite  so  ;  the  wood  is  full  of  snakes,  and 
there  can  be  no  path  at  all.  If  you  had  had  a  protector  with 
you  " 

Cora  felt  guilty  ;  but  knowing  her  father's  punctilious  ideas 
of  propriety  and  ceremony  as  to  forming  acquaintances,  she 
feared  his  displeasure,  and  simply  said,  "  I  came  home  very 
well.  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  a  poor  dinner,  papa.  Will 
fruit  answer  to-day  for  your  dessert  ?" 

"  Yes,  Cora,  and  see,  dear,  that  that  child  don't  tear  up  my 
newspapers  so  much.  She  has  been  swinging  on  the  gate  all 
the  morning,  when  she  hasn't  been  breaking  dishes,  and  quarrel- 
ling with  Sophy.  You  must  train  her  better,  my  daugjiter 
She's  demure  as  a  saint  ;  but  I  think  she's  deceitful." 

Cora  felt  her  own  course  had  not  been  fairly  open  ;  but  he 
had  trials  enough  while  she  was  away,  and  she  did  not  like  to 
further  annoy  him.  Still  her  mind  was  ill  at  ease.  But  she 
resolved  not  to  be  again  imprudent,  and  so  she  quieted  her 
conscience,  and  made  what  reparation  she  could  for  her  neg- 
lect, by  extra  diligence  ;  and  although  dinner  was  an  hour 
later  than  the  usual  time,  still  it  was  in  satisfactory  order. 


142  Isora's    Child. 

During  the  repast,  her  father  told  her  that  he  had  received 
a  note  from  Mr.  Clarendon,  who  was  coming  to  visit  them  that 
evening.  "  Dress  yourself  with  care,  my  daughter,"  he  added, 
as  he  left  the  dining-room  for  his  study. 

Cora's  face  was  serious  as  she  heard  the  announcement. 
She  hoped  to  have  had  a  quiet  afternoon  with  her  work  and 
her  own  thoughts,  and  knew  that  Mr.  Clarendon  was  one  who 
required  her  attention.  She  had  hitherto  found  him  pleasant  ; 
but  to-day  felt  annoyed  at  the  proposed  visit,  and  hoped  that 
something  would  occur  to  prevent  it.  She  amused  herself  by 
arranging  her  flowers,  chirping  to  Minnie,  and  playing  with 
her  dog  after  dinner,  which  gave  encouragement  to  Judy  to 
scrape  the  fruit  plates,  more  for  her  own  palate  than  for  the 
sake  of  clearing  the  table  ;  and  when  Cora  indolently  laid 
back  her  head  on  the  sofa  pillow,  and  half  s-hut  her  eyes,  to 
dream  of  a  pair  she  could  not  forget,  mightily  was  the  vision 
disturbed  by  the  way  and  the  avidity  with  which  Judy  sweet- 
ened herself  from  the  sugar-bowl.  But  being  very  much 
wearied,  she  let  her  go  on  preserving  herself,  though  she  felt 
somewhat  amused  at  her  way  of  making  lemonade,  she  having, 
Sophy  said,  "  sucked  down  all  the  lemons  in  the  cupboard  in 
the  forenoon." 

But  before  Judy's  operations  at  the  table  were  over,  Cora 
had  fallen  asleep,  and  a  picture  of  innocence  she  made,  with 
her  head  drooping  under  its  weight  of  curls,  hjilf  supported 
by  an  arm  and  hand  too  delicate  for  its  burden.  Her  lips- 
v/ere  slightly  parted,  while  her  cheek  flushed  like  an  infant's. 
One  of  her  morning  flowers  lay  on  her  bosom,  which  her  right 
hand  clasped.  Her  father  found  her  thus,  and  for  a  moment 
viewed  her  tenderly — then  stooping  over  her,  parted  her  hair 
on  her  forehead,  and  gently  kissed  her.  He  then  closed  the 
lattice,  and  told  Judy  *' not  to  disturb  Miss  Cora,  that  she 
was  very  tired."  The  house  was  still,  and  not  a  sound  was 
heard  but  the  singing  of  the  locusts  near  the  window,  and  the 
murmuring  of  insects  among  the  flowers,  that  sent  in  their 
odors  while  she  slept.  Old  Sophy  came  once  to  the  door  to 
see  if  "  all  was  to  rights,"  and  slipped  over  the  sill  like  a  cat, 
to  put  a  gauze  veil  over  her  face,  "  to  keep  off  the  pesky  flies," 
and  then  after  looking  over  the  table  ornaments,  and  thumbing 
a  few  books,  and  "peeking"  through  the  blinds  to  see  if  the 
chickens  were  in  the  flower-beds,  she  went  out  as  slily  and  as 
still  as  she  came  in.     But  not  so  Judy,  although  Sophy  had 


Isoka's    Child.  Ii3 

dragged  her  twice  by  the  back  of  her  dress  away  from  the 
parlor  wiudows,  she  still  persisted  in  running  with  Frisk  back 
and  forth  on  the  piazza,  until  ordered  off  by  the  Colonel  in 
such  peremptory  tones,  that  she  much  preferred  the  back  side 
of  the  house,  and  the  society  of  the  cat. 

Cora  at  length  awoke,  refreshed  after  a  long  slumber. 
8he  hastened  to  her  chamber  to  dress  for  the  evening.  Her 
father  liked  to  see  her  in  white,  so  she  selected  her  prettiest 
robe,  and  after  decorating  her  hair  with  unusual  taste,  put  oc 
her  virgin  attire.  Her  recent  repose  had  left  her  slightly  pale, 
and  somewhat  pensive.  Notwithstanding  her  morning's  enjoy 
ment,  there  was  still  some  weight  on  her  mind.  She  was  not 
entirely  happy.  Cora  was  not  given  to  indolent  reveries  ;  she 
was  too  full  of  action,  there  was  too  much  aim  in  her  pursuits 
to  indulge  in  hours  of  idleness  ;  but  to-night  she  was  more  re- 
flective than  usual.  Her  heart  condemned  her  for  the  conceal- 
ment she  had  practised  upon  her  father  ;  but  how  could  she 
excuse  herself  for  treating  with  so  little  ceremony,  a  stranger 
whom  she  knew  only  as  the  son  of  a  neighbor  ?  She  felt  that 
she  was  doing  wrong  to  deceive  him,  and  determined  before 
night,  to  tell  him  who  had  been  her  morning's  companion. 
But  the  expected  visitor  came,  and  now  it  was  too  late.  Mr, 
Clarendon  manifested  much  delight  to  see  Cora  again,  but  she 
did  not  greet  him  with  her  old  light-hearted  manner.  He 
observed  her  depression,  but  thought  her  so  perfect  in  her 
languor,  that  he  would  hardly  have  changed  her.  The  parlor 
was  shaded  where  he  found  her  sitting,  and  the  light  coming 
through  the  green  lattice,  gave  a  paler  shade  to  her  com- 
plexion. 

Her  bearing  was  graceful  as  usual,  but  quiet  and  dignified. 
He  thought  hi-r  dress  exquisitely  beautiful,  making  her  look  purer 
and  more  chastely  elegant  than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  Still  ho 
was  piqued  with  her  indifference.  After  conversing  with  him  a 
short  time,  she  left  him,  pleading  fatigue  to  her  father,  and  wish- 
ing him  to  excuse  her  for  awhile.  The  Colonel  repaired  to  the 
parlor,  and  Cora  did  not  return  until  tea-time.  The  meal 
passed  off  pleasantly,  notwithstanding  Cora's  languor,  and 
everything  conspired  to  make  the  Colonel  happy.  He  had 
had  a  conversation  with  his  friend,  that  put  him  into  great 
spirits,  and  had  been  able  that  day  to  raise  a  loan  which  tem- 
porarily relieved  him  from  some  pecuniary  trouble.  Hi^ 
indebtedness  was  not  less,  but  he  felt  it  some  relief  to  be  abla  to 


144 


shift  the  obligation.  Thus,  from  the  weakest  mismanagement, 
the  Colonel  lived  in  a  state  of  perpetual  slavery.  He  was 
anxious  that  his  daughter  should  pay  as  much  attention  to  his 
friend  as  himself,  and  regretted  that  she  was  indisposed. 
After  tea,  Cora  felt  in  better  spirits,  and  resolved  as  soon  as 
Mr.  Clarendon  had  gone,  to  tell  her  father  of  the  acquaintance 
she  had  formed  without  his  knowledge.  A  slight  shower  had 
fallen  during  the  afternoon,  and  had  left  its  diamond  rain 
glittering  on  the  trees  and  shrubs,  which  now  shook  with  'their 
dripping  leaves. 

A  rainbow  was  seen  across  the  sky,  so  vivid  and  brilliant 
that  she  went  on  to  the  steps  of  the  balcony  for  a  better 
view.  There  she  stood,  until  it  faded  into  the  blue  haze  of 
coming  night.  The  air  was  sweet,  and  troops  of  birds  that 
had  hatched  their  young,  since  Cora's  childhood,  in  the  old 
trees  about  the  cottage,  now  sung  merrily.  She  sat  down  on 
the  steps,  and  watched  the  little  songsters  'as  they  flitted 
among  the  wet  branches. 

Mr.  Clarendon  left  the  Colonel  and  joined  her.  He  rallied 
her  on  her  dejection,  and  asked  her  what  she  was  thinking 
about,  that  made  her  so  serious  ?" 

'•  Oh,  of  nothing,"  replied  Cora,  "  I  was  watching  the  little 
blue  bird  with  yellow  tips  to  his  wings.  I  think  he  is  an  old 
acquaintance.  If  he  is  the  same,  I  found  him  alone  in  his  nest 
one  day  deserted,  and  took  him  away  and  fed  him,  until  I 
tamed  him.  He  would  hop  from  my  hand,  and  light  on  my 
finger,  and  shoulder.  But  one  day  I  thought  he  wanted  his 
freedom,  and  let  him  fly  back  to  the  woods.  I  have  not  seen 
him  since  then.  That  was  last  summer  ;  but  I  am  sure 
that  that  is  little  Tip,  with  his  gold  and  blue  feathers.  Don't 
startle  him  I  he's  coming  nearer — hushT  she  whispered,  "he  is 
on  the  lilac  bush  I  there  !  now' close  to  me  !" 

Cora  stood  eagerly  forward,  almost  breathless.  She  chirped 
to  her  old  favorite,  when,  to  her  delight,  he  flew  towards  her, 
and  lighted  upon  her  outstretched  linger.  She  drew  him 
towards  her,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  pretty  feathers  caress- 
ingly, calling  him  ''Tippy  ;"  but  when  she  attempted  to  feed 
him,  with  his  disdain  of  captivity,  he  flew  on  to  an  elm  branch 
near  by,  and  after  swelling  his  throat  with  a  few  sweet  notes, 
winged  himself  away. 

Cora  was  much  excited,  and  ran  to  her  father,  and  while 
she  eagerly  clasped  his  arm,  said,  "  Oh  !  papa,  little  Tip   has 


Isora's    Child.  145 

been  to  see  me."  Her  father  smiled  affectionately,  and  told 
her  she  was  a  "  silly  child."  Cora  then  ran  back  to  the  steps, 
while  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  branches. 

"  Do  you  think,  Cora,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  approaching 
her,  "  that  you  will  always  have  this  passion  for  birds  and 
flowers  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  weak  for  me  to  do  so  ?"  questioned 
Cora. 

"Your  love  is  too  precious  to  be  wasted  unappreciated," 
said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

**  I  beheve  that  God  meant  to  have  us  love  all  beautiful 
thing's,"  said  Cora,  "  else  birds  and  flowers  wouldn't  have  been, 
made  so  beautiful  and  sweet.  Dear  little  things  !  they  some- 
times seem  fit  company  for  angels.  How  good  they  are  too  ; 
when  they  first  wake,  their  songs  seem  to  go  up  to  Heaven.  I 
love  to  sometimes  wake  at  early  dawn,  when  they  begin  to 
twitter  and  sing.  If,  with  their  instinct,  they  involuntarily 
worship  God,  how  strange  it  is  that  we  don't  love  Him  more." 

"  But,  Cora,  do  you  not  think  it  mere  imagination,  that 
leads  one  to  think  they  praise  their  Creator.  I  suppose  they 
sing',  as  naturally  as  bees  hum." 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  God  has  given  them  sweeter  music,  and  I 
love  at  least  to  think  their  early  songs  are  morning  orisons. 
Their  songs  are  certainly  praise,  if  unconscious  music  ;  for 
they  exhibit  God's  glory,  and  so  we  may  say  of  all  nature's 
music.  J  think  a  little  bird  could  be  the  means  of  making  one 
a  Christian." 

"  How,  Cora  ?" 

"  By  their  innocent,  joyous  lives — there  is  nothing  grovelling 
or  gross  about  them  ;  they  seem  a  typification  of  holiness  when 
they  wing  upwards,  and  never  so  happy  as  when  they  soar  in  the 
blue  sky,  just  as  we  ought  to  find  happiness,  by  elevating  our 
hearts  to  Heaven.  There  is  something  in  this  hour,  and  the 
birds,  that  always  makes  me  wish  I  was  good.  But  I  know 
you  think  I  am  silly,  and  it  is  strange  that  I  talk  so  to  you  ; 
but  I  suppose  (Cora  smiled),  it  is  iDCcause  you  always  seem 
»ucb  a  good  listener." 

"  Cora,  you  can  never  weary  me.  I  could  always  listen  to 
you.  You  are  too  good,  I  wish  sometimes  that  you  were  less 
£0,  for  you  are  a  reproach  to  your  friends." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Mr.  Clarendon.  Oh,  I  have  been  distressed 
all  day  at  something  wrong  that  I  have  done." 

7 


146  Isoka's    Child. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  delighted  with  Cora's  confidential 
manner,  and  encouraged  her  to  talk  freely,  and  tell  him 
anything. 

"  Bat  you  will  think  I  have  done  wrong,  too," 

"  Tell  what  naughty  thing  you  could  do,"  said  Mr.  Claren- 
don, playfully,  while  he  seated  himself  on  the  step  below  Cora, 
and  leaned  his  head  against  a  pillar. 

"  Well,  then,  if  I  tell  you,  you  must  be  a  kind  brother, 
and  say  if  it  was  really  wrong." 

Mr.  Clarendon  watched  Cora's  little  foot  as  she  spoke,  and 
as  the  tiny  slipper  tapped  the  seat  near  him,  he  saw  that  Cora 
spoke  with  feeling. 

"  I  will;"  said  he,  "  speak  freely." 

"Well,  then,  is  it  wrong  to  make  an  acquaintance  accident- 
ally, without  an  introduction,  if  we  feel  that  they  mean  and  act 
rightly  ?" 

"It  would  not  be  in  me,  Cora,  but  perhaps — I  think  it  is — 
imprudent  for  you.     Why  ?  have  you  done  so  ?" 

"  Is  it  wrong,  Mr.  Clarendon  ?" 

"  What  is  imprudent,  is  wrong,  in  a  young  lady.  But  you 
would  not  do  so  without  your  father's  knowledge.  He  is,  you 
know,  very  particular  in  his  associates." 

"But  the  persons  that  introduce  us  are  not  always  so 
desirable  as  those  they  make  us  acquainted  with." 

"  Now  tell  me,  Cora,  whose  acquaintance  you  have  formed 
clandestinely."  Mr,  Clarendon's  manner  was  very  earnest,  and 
his  eyes  full  of  keen  observation. 

"  Oh  !  I  cannot  tell  you,  Mr,  Clarendon,  but  I  mean  to  tell 
papa," 

"  Is  this  person  a  man  or  woman  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  cannot  tell  any  one  but  papa,"  said  Cora.  "  Bui 
I  have  been  arguing  the  matter  in  my  mind  whether  I  did 
wrong,  I  know  I  have  not  done  right  not  to  tell  my  fathej 
who  I  walked  with." 

"  Walked  with  !  Miss  Cora  ?  He  will  disapprove  of  all  this 
I  know,  Cora.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  and  I  will  guard  you,  anc^ 
you  will  avoid  his  displeasure. 

"  But  still  I  should  deceive  him." 

The  night  had  now  become  nearly  dark,  and  as  Cora 
and  Mr.  Clarendon  talked,  the  latter  drew  nearer  to  his  young 
companion.  He  addressed  her  in  tones  low  and  earnest,  and 
begged  her,  if  she  regarded  him  as  a  friend,  to  place  full  confi- 


Isoka's    Child.  147 

dence  in  him,  and  that,  if  there  was  aught  he  could  do  for  her, 
or  her  father,  it  shouki  be  done. 

Ere  Cora  coukl  reply,  he  threw  his  arm  about  her,  and 
in  whispered  accents  murmured,  "AVoidd,  Cora,  that  I  could 
guard  you  through  life." 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  young  girl's  cheek  and  neck.  She 
instinctively  felt  that  there  was  more  than  the  *'  father's  friend  " 
in  the  tones  and  the  embrace,  from  which  she  sprung  to  her 
feet,  trembling  and  alarmed.  She  attempted  to  go,  but  eager, 
earnest  words,  and  an  arm  from  which  she  could  not  flee,  held 
her  powerless. 

"  Cora,  do  you  think,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  ''  that  all 
the  flowers  of  Araby — the  birds  of  heaven,  could  charm  me 
while  you  were  near  them  ?" 

"  Oh,  let  me  go,"  said  Cora,  breathlessly. 

"  Listen  to  me  for  one  moment,  and  you  shall.  You  call  me 
ambitious,  and  so  I  am,  for  the  world's  honors  and  for  wealth  ; 
but  without  a  loving  heart  to  rejoice  in  my  success,  and  share 
my  prosperity,  I  am  poor,  indeed.  I  am  ambitious  for  more, 
for  the  love  of  your  young  heart.  No,  no,  not  yet."  Mr. 
Charendon  now  kissed  the  resisting  fingers  he  held.  "  Could  I 
win  this  little  hand,  I  would  sacrifice  for  it  all  the  laurels  that 
ever  wreathed  the  brow  of  poet  or  patriot." 

Cora  could  not  speak,  but  she  covered  her  eyes,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  gently. 

"  Oh,  you  have  shocked  me  !  Oh,  spare  your  flattery  for 
the  fashionable  world.  I  do  not  understand  it.  I  thought 
you  was  my  friend,  and  so  I  talked  to  you."  Cora's  words 
came  in  an  agitated  whisper. 

''  Your  friend  !  Cora  !  Would  I  not  be  brother,  friend  and 
husband  to  you  ?  You  are  young,  but  shall  have  all  the  ten 
derness  that  an  idol  could  desire." 

Cora's  face  had  been  hid  in  her  hands,  she  now  raised  it,  and 
in  a  low,  imploring  accent,  said,  "  Don't  distress  me.  I  am 
but  a  little  girl,  and  you  terrify  me  by  such  language.  Oh, 
no,  no,  no .'" 

"  Cora,  I  will  not  wed  an  unwilling  bride.  Think  of  my 
proposal.     You  shall  have  a  beautiful  liome." 

■'Oh,  no.     I  have  a  dear  home  now." 

"  Cora,  it  need  not  be  a  city  home.  You  shall  have  a 
bower  as  sweet  as  ever  the  sun  shone  upon  in  Eden.     And 


14:8  1  s  o  R  a'  s    Child. 

more  than  this.     You  shall  see  the  skies  of  Italy,  breathe  the 
softest  air  of  France,  and  love,  idolatry,  shall  be  your  food." 

"  Oh  1  no,  no,  tzo,"  said  the  struggling  girl. 

"  Be  calm  then — one  kiss  from  your  beautiful  lips  shall  tell 
me  all  your  tongue  refuses." 

The  darkness  of  the  hour  revealed  no  indignant  blushes,  and 
the  low,  urgent  entreaties  of  the  lover  were  not  spared  for  that 
reason  ;  but  a  loud  scream  from  Judy  put  a  damper  on  the 
progress  of  his  suit,  while  in  vexation  he  listened  to  the  follow- 
ing outcry  : 

"  Miss  Cory  !  Miss  Cory  !  The  rabbits  are  all  out,  and  a 
fox  is  in  the  chicken-coop." 

The  release  was  not  voluntary,  but  his  nerves  had  had  a 
shock  that  the  wildest  hopes  of  success  could  hardly  have 
given  him.  He  was  ready  to  wring  the  necks  of  not  only  all 
the  chickens,  but  Judy's  along  with  them.  Cora  had  suddenly 
vanished,  and  he  felt  almost  as  keenly  as  Judy  did,  "a  fox  was 
in  the  chicken-coop,"  and  that  the  chicken  had  come  off 
victor. 

In  the  meantime  Cora  had  sought  her  father.  The  latter 
had  observed  that  his  daughter  was  with  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  and 
having  noticed  her  previous  reserve,  was  glad  that  she  was 
more  courteous,  so  he  devoted  himself  to  the  evening  papers, 
while  they  were  conversing. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  she  murmured,  as  she  leaned  against  her 
father's  shoulder,  "  I  am  so  unhappy." 

"  AVhat  is  it,  my  child  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now  ;  but  go  to  Mr.  Clarendon,  and  do 
not  ask  me  to  come  into  the  parlor  again  to-night.  I  will 
come  down  when  he  is  gone." 

"  My  daughter,  you  distress  me.     Are  you  ill  ?" 

"No,  no.     I  will  tell  you  by-and-by." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  if  you  wish,  I  will  excuse  you.  Come  to 
me  before  you  retire."  Cora's  head  was  again  pressed  fondly 
to  the  breast  of  her  parent.  The  Colonel  then  returned  to 
Mr.  Clarendon.  He  found  him  pacing  the  outer  walk  with 
rapid  steps.  His  arms  were  folded,  and  he  seemed  not  to 
observe  the  Colonel's  approach.  His  host  soon  accosted  him, 
and  begged  him  to  excuse  his  absenting  himself  so  long.  Mr. 
Clarendon  made  some  irrelevant  reply,  and  walked  on.  The 
Colonel  then  remarked  upon  the  night,  and  of  the  last  news 
reported.     The  replies  of  his  guest  were  brief,  and  the  Colonel 


Isoea's    Child.  149 

observed  the  change  that  had  come  over  hun  since  tea.  He 
could  not  account  for  his  mood,  nor  for  that  of  Cora  ;  and 
endeavored  to  rouse  him  from  his  reserve,  but  found  him  inac- 
cessible and  taciturn.  A  long  pause  ensued,  while  the  gentle- 
men continued  to  manifest  their  fondness  for  the  evening  air 
and  gravelled  walks.  It  was  at  last  broken  by  a  remark  from 
the  Colonel,  who  thought  "  the  night  was  becoming  cooler," 
to  which  Mr.  Clarendon  assented  bv  saying,  "Yes,  yes,  very 
hot." 

The  Colonel,  then,  poked  up  the  stones  with  his  cane,  and 
coughed,  while  he  complained  of  a  tendency  to  bronchitis,  at 
which  Mr.  Clarendon  said,  "  Ah  !"  And  when  the  Colonel, 
furthermore,  stated  that  *'  at  times  he  felt  like  choking,"  his 
guest  sympathetically  observed  "  that  it  was  very  likely."  But 
this  state  of  things  was  brief.  Mr.  Clarendon  had  finally 
reached  the  crisis  of  his  fever  ;  whereupon  a  change  occurred 
which  brought  light  to  the  mind  of  the  anxious  Colonel. 

"  You  find  me  absent-minded,  perhaps,  Colonel,"  said  the 
former. 

"  Some." 

"  Well,  Colonel,  a  few  words  will  explain  matters.  Your 
daughter  will,  probably,  tell  you  what  I  have  this  evening 
said  to  her,  and  you  must  already  know  that  I  have  more  than 
one  object  in  visiting  Yillacora." 

"  Hem  1"  came  from  somewhere  in  the  Colonel's  windpipe. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  wish  to  make  no  secret  of  my  object.  I  wish 
to  marry  your  daughter." 

The  Colonel  stopped  as  short  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  with- 
out any  preparatory  measures  on  his  part.  He  was  speechless 
and  confounded.  Mr.  Clarendon,  therefore,  left  him  leaning 
against  a  tree,  and  walked  on  a  few  paces,  when  suddenly 
turning,  he  added — 

"  I  have,  doubtless,  taken  you  by  surprise,  sir,  but  I  hope 
not  unpleasantly  so.  I  have  lived  a  bachelor  long  enough. 
Your  daughter  suits  my  taste,  and  an  alliance  with  your  family 
would  be  agreeable  to  me  ;  may  I  hope  for  your  influence 
with  Miss  Cora  ?" 

The  Colonel  slightly  choked,  but  finally  muttered,  "  A  child. 
Clarendon — a  mere  child — as  ignorant  of  the  world  as  a  baby. 
Pardon  me,  but  your  scheme  is  wild — may  I  say  it,  sir,  incom- 
prehensible." 

''By  no   means,  Colonel ;    she  is  young    but   she  will  bo 


150  I  s  0  K  a'  s    Child. 

older.     She  is  all  I  could  desire  in  a  wife.     I  would  not  liurrj 
matters,  but  wish  to  be  assured  of  your  approbation," 

"  You  have  talked,  then,  with  the  child  ?  She  seemed  dis- 
turbed— much  so.  How  was  she  affected  by  the  strange  pro- 
posal ?     Pardon  me  !    Very  strange,  Mr.  Clarendon." 

"We  were  interrupted,  sir." 

"  By  Judy  ?  By  Jndy.  doubtless.  Trouljlesome  servant. 
I  will  discharge  her — too  noisy — decidedly.  The  child  was  not 
acquiescent,  1  judge  ?  Cora  prefers  not  to  leave  me,  of 
course  :  quite  natural  at  her  age.  Glad  to  oblige  you — feel 
flattered,  but  her  youth  is  objectionable  ;  wholly  objectionable. 
Walk  in,  sir  ;  take  a  glass  of  wine,  sir.  It  must  have  been 
unpleasant — interrupted,  too,  by  Judy.  She  would  have  de- 
clined, of  course — of  course.  She  likes,  foolish  child,  other 
things  better  :  has  not  thought  of  marrying  yet." 

•'  I  will  not  annoy  you  further,  Colonel,  to  night,"  said  Mr. 
Clarendon — "it  is  a  matter  requiring  consideration.  A  union 
of  this  kind  would  make  your  welfare  mine.  I  could,  then, 
efSciently  aid  you." 

"  Can't  sell  my  daughter,  sir.  All  right  on  your  part,  sir  ; 
but  she  thinks  of  other  things — likes  rabbits  and  birds — given 
up  dolls,  but  still  young — very  young,  Mr.  Clarendon." 

"  You  will  consider  the  matter  at  your  leisure,  perhaps  ?'' 

"  Not  necessary,  Mr.  Clarendon.  New  York  is  the  place  for 
you  ;  fashionable  men  must  marry  fine  women — plenty  of  them, 
Mr.  Clarendon.  Quite  right — quite  proper  you  should  marry 
— did  so  myself.  I  approve  of  it.  Never  thought  of  Cora  for 
you.  She  must  be  surprised,  sir — quite  so.  Come  in,  sir  ; 
come  in." 

The  gentlemen  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  walked  into 
the  parlor.  The  Colonel  immediately  approached  the  side- 
board, broke  several  glasses  in  his  haste,  but  finally  brought 
)ut  some  Madeira,  and  offered  it  to  his  guest. 

Mr.  Clarendon  accepted  a  glass,  and  as  the  Colonel  seemed 
bent  on  desultory  conversation,  indulged  him  much  against  his 
private  wishes.  The  Colonel  felt  unpleasanth^ — was  embar- 
rassed, and  yet  desirous  of  pleasing.  He  wished  that  Cora 
had  spent  the  day  in  the  woods.  She  was  there  well  off— only 
a  "neighborhood  boy"  with  her.  He  liked  to  have  her  pick 
flowers  and  strawberries,  and  she  looked  sweet  always  to  him 
around  the  house — she  always  sung,  too,  every  night  Mr 
Clarendon  was  certainly  beside  himself,  he  thought — he  never 


I  s  o  K  A '  s    Child.  151 

knew  him  take  too  much — but  it  was  possible,  q  lite  possible. 
So  the  Colonel  thought  it  best  to  humor  his  friend,  and  that  he 
miii-ht  for<!:et  his  strange  proposal  by  morning. 

They  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  talking  over  various 
matters,  on  which  topics  both  became  animated,  particularly 
the  Colonel.  He  never  more  urgently  pressed  his  guest  to 
repeat  his  visit,  and  even  told  him  that  Cora  would  come  down, 
but  he  liked  her  "  to  go  to  bed  early,  it  made  girls  grow  faster." 

Mr.  Clarendon  bowed  assent,  and  thought  it  prudent  to  tack 
a  little  ;  so  after  steering  with  as  much  policy  as  the  circum- 
stances admitted  of,  and  seeing  no  chance  of  Cora's  re-appear- 
ing, he  bid  the  Colonel  adieu.  He  heard  Judy's  voice  yet  at 
the  chicken-coop,  and  thought  that  the  Colonel  had  better 
teach  her  his  "early  to  bed"  maxims.  The  fox  was  certainly 
abroad  that  night,  but  the  chickens  were  well  cooped. 

After  his  departure,  Cora  was  summoned  from  her  bed- 
chamber to  which  she  had  resorted,  much  disturbed.  The 
words  of  Mr.  Clarendon  were  deeply  imprinted  on  her  memory, 
and  his  meaning  fully  understood.  Her  life  had  hitherto  been 
serene  as  an  infant's  dream.  To-day  her  imagination  had 
been  ardently  excited;  in  the  morning  she  had  been  entirely 
happy — the  scenes  of  the  flowery  wood  were  still  on  her  fancy, 
but  the  .close  of  the  day  had  brought  new,  exciting  and  painful 
emotion.  She  longed  for  the  hour  to  come  to  confess  all  to 
?ier  father,  and  receive  his  sympathy  and  consolation.  She  felt 
that  Judy  had  been  her  good  angel,  and  saved  her  from  deep 
mortification.  At  her  father's  call,  she  jumped  from  the  seat 
where  she  had  thrown  herself,  with  her  face  hid  in  her  hands, 
and  was  soon  on  his  knee  in  his  sitting-room. 

"Mr.  Clarendon  has  prepared  me,  my  daughter,"  said  the 
Colonel,  "  for  your  confession — he  cannot  be  himself  to-night — 
he  proposed  marriage,  Cora,  to  you,  ray  child  ! — never  mind, 
never  mind — I  have  arranged  it,  satisfactorily,  quite  so — he  got 
over  it,  and  premised  to  come  again.  I  told  him  that  you  had 
gone  to  bed — good  plan  to  retire  early,  at  your  age,  ray 
daughter.  He  agreed  with  me,  and  seemed  quite  pleased 
with  my  prudence.  He  is  a  sensible  man,  and  needs  a  wife — • 
I  will  help  him  look  up  one — he  has  been  useful  to  me,  and  I 
respect  him.     Are  you  now  quite  over  your  flurry  ?" 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  forgotten  what  he  said,"  wJiispered  Cora. 

"What  did  he  say?"' 

'*  Oh,  I  can't  tell,  papa,  lie  was  foolish,  and  it  uiade  me  feel 


152  Isora's    Child. 

so.     I  couldn't  answer  him  ;  but  there  is  another  thing  that  1 
must  tell  you  ;  it  weighs  heavily  on  my  mind." 

"  What  is  it,  Cora  ?     About  Judy,  a  troublesome  child?" 

**  Oh,  no,  papa  ;  about  my  walk  home.     1  was  with  " 

"  One  of  the  neighborhood  boys,  perfectly  safe  on  the  whole. 
1  was  alarmed  at  first  ;  but  it  was  all  right  ;  very  good  of  him 
to  come  with  you," 

"  But  it  was  not  a  boy,  papa,  it  was  a  gentleman." 

"  Very  nice  young  man,  doubtless  ;  lives  near  the  wood  !'^ 

"  He  sports  about  the  woods  a  good  deal,  and  knows  all  the 
paths." 

"  Yery  good  of  him.  Tell  him  to  bring  us  some  fish,  I  will 
buy  it  of  him." 

"But  he  don't  sell  fish,  papa.  He  has  just  come  from 
Europe  " 

**  Just  over,  I  suppose.     Irish  then — great  many  about- 
clever,  I  suppose  ;  and  Goody  knows  him.     Would  he  like  a 
situation  ?" 

"  He  is  not  poor,  and  he  is  not  Irish.  He  lives  at  The 
Park." 

"  The  Park,  Cora  1  What  have  you  to  do  with  people  from 
there  ?     I  am  shocked,  distressed  1" 

"  It  was  young  Mr.  Wilton,  papa,"  said  Cora,  with  trepi- 
dation. 

"  Where  did  you  become  acquainted  with  him,  Cora  ?" 

"  It  happened  somehow.     I  don't  know  exactly." 

"A  puppy,  doubtless  !  Never  speak  to  him.  You  have 
done  wrong,  very  wrong.     I  am  displeased,  highly  so." 

The  Colonel  pushed  liis  daughter  aside,  and  walked  the  room 
hurriedly. 

"I  hate  the  Wiltons,"  he  continued,  "root  and  branch.  I 
•wish  you  to  scorn  them,  to  sparn  their  notice.  Will  yon 
remember  this  ?" 

The  Colonel  now  took  hold  of  Cora's  arm  as  he  addressed 
her.  Cora  sunk  weeping  on  a  chair,  while  her  father  continued 
to  harshly  reprove  her.  Cora  was  deeply  grieved  ;  but  felt 
relieved  that  she  had  confessed  the  whole  of  her  imprudence  ; 
and  after  some  relenting  on  her  father's  part,  went  sadly  to 
her  chamber. 

Mr.  Clarendon  had,  in  the  meanwhile,  sought  his  home.  He 
knew  his  estimation  as  a  match  in  society,  and  defeat  only 
roused  his  determination  to  succeed.     He  had  been  accustomed 


Isoea's    Child.  153 

from  childhood  to  exorcise  sway  over  those  around  him  ;  aud 
commenced  life  with  au  imperious  will,  and  a  spirit  unyielding 
and  domineering.  His  superior  intellect  commanded  in  his 
youth  the  respect  of  his  seniors,  and  his  rapid  progress  to 
eminence  in  his  profession  excited  no  surprise  with  those 
acquainted  with  his  talents  and  ambition.  The  tones  of  his 
voice  were  clear  and  melodious,  and  his  eloquence  often  thril- 
ling in  its  power.  He  was  a  favorite  with  both  sexes  ;  witty 
and  courteous  to  his  own,  and  flatteringly  deferential  to  the 
other.  His  person  was  distinguished  for  its  unaffected  ele- 
gance, rather  than  beauty,  though  when  animated  with  the 
enthusiasm  which  his  subject  inspired,  there  were  few  who 
awarded  him  not  its  meed. 

He  was  in  the  zenith  of  his  popularity  ;  but  the  native 
nobleness  of  his  character  was  daily  becoming  obscured  by  the 
world's  deceitful  varnish,  while  he  hid  the  sincerity  of  a  natur- 
ally ingenuous  nature  beneath  the  gloss  of  worldly  policy. 

Talent,  aided  by  intrigue,  had  secured  him  every  adv^antage 
of  position  ;  but  the  fever  of  excitement  had  begun  to  subside, 
and  palled  upon  his  senses.  He  had  drunk  of  every  Circean 
cup,  from  fashion's  gilded  saloon,  to  the  court  where  Bacchus 
holds  his  gayest  revels.  Still,  to  the  world,  he  was  yet 
unstained  by  vice  ;  and  the  society  of  Louis  Clarendon  was 
f'jurted  by  all  in  the  circle  in  which  he  moved.  The  faults  of 
his  character  were  only  known  to  those  acquainted  with  his 
private  history.  Satiated  with  honors  and  pleasure,  he  now 
craved  the  possession  of  a  fresh  young  heart,  united  wiih  such 
qualifications  as  would  adorn  his  home.  He  wished  that  a  few 
more  years  had  passed  over  the  head  of  Cora  Livingston  ;  but 
even  with  youth,  he  preferred  her  to  any  woman  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. She  was  simple,  yet  refined  ;  beautiful  without  vanity, 
and  amiable  with  spirit  and  character  ;  and  more  than  all,  the 
quiet  elegance  of  manner  so  natural  to  her,  fitted  her,  he 
believed,  for  the  position.  His  last  interview  with  her  had 
not  demolished  his  hopes.  He  knew  that  his  proposal  had 
startled  her,  and  he  feared  that  the  sportsman  of  the  wood  had 
excited  her  fancy  ;  but  he  contrasted  his  practised  powers  of 
conquest,  with  the  youth  and  inexperience  of  her  young 
admirer,  whoever  he  might  be,  and  resolved  yet  to  win  her. 

He  had  no  fear  of  the  Colonel's  serious  opposition  after  the 
first  shock  was  over,  and  knew  that  his  influence  upon  him  was 
powerful  and  impressive. 

1* 


154 


Flora  Islington  was  now  but  a  dream  on  his  imagination. 
No  longer  under  the  sway  of  her  magical  eyes,  and  the  syren 
tones  of  her  voice,  he  had  almost  dismissed  her  from  his  me- 
mory, and  believed  that  he  could  now  see  her,  unmoved,  and 
even  hear  that  she  was  wedded  to  another.  Still  his  curiosity 
was  often  excited  to  know  her  fate,  and  to  learn  if  she  had 
ceased  to  love  him.  His  sympathy  was  excited  when  he  thought 
of  her  perhaps  necessitous  condition,  and  he  yet  hoped  that 
she  would  apply  to  him  for  aid. 

He  knew  that  her  education  and  mind  fitted  her  for  gaining 
a  support,  but  also  that  she  would  have  to  contend  with  the 
indolent  nature  and  luxurious  habits  of  her  early  life. 

He  had  often  thought  her  incapable  of  exertion,  but  he  only 
pictured  her  as  he  had  there  known  her.  He  knew  not  the 
change  that  awaited  her,  and  the  dread  sacrifice  she  made  when 
she  resigned  his  home  and  love. 

With  Mrs.  Linden  she  struggled  on  for  a  year,  endeavoring 
to  school  her  heart  to  endure  her  sad  destiny.  She  became, 
daily,  more  persuaded  that  the  friend  who  had  implanted  in 
her  breast  the  love  of  virtue,  and  had  pointed  out  to  her  the 
road  to  heaven,  had  great  and  secret  trials.  She  became 
alarmed  with  her  long  hours  of  seclusion,  and  distressed  with 
her  mysterious  silence  regarding  her  past  history.  She  often 
felt  that  she  was  a  burden  to  her,  although  Mrs.  Linden  re- 
proached her  for  the  confession,  and  the  thought  frequently 
crossed  her  mind  that,  but  for  her,  this  admirable  woman  might 
seek  a  life  more  congenial  to  her  tastes  than  that  which  seemed 
but  a  cloister,  in  which  her  talents  were  hid  from  the  world. 
But  Flora  had  only  to  express  such  sentiments  to  receive  tears 
and  reproaches  from  the  only  being  to  whom  she  could  cling 
with  confidence.  They  read,  worked,  and  sung  together,  while 
the  sorrows  of  each  were  topics  never  alluded  to.  Flora's  face 
grew  daily  pallid  and  more  .spirituelle  in  its  loveliness,  though 
her  health  was  sufficient  to  support  her  in  the  exercise  of  her 
duties.  Her  voice  grew  more  melting  and  subduing,  and  the 
melody  of  her  song  seemed  to  have  caught  the  tones  of  a 
seraph.  She  repulsed  all  advances  from  the  many  admirers 
who  became  enamoured  of  her  beauty,  and  preferred  her  books 
and  solitude  to  any  society.  She  had  loved  with  all  the  fervor 
of  an  impassioned  nature,  and  her  heart  could  admit  no  second 
inmate.  She  assumed  again  the  dress  she  had  reluctantly  re- 
signed after  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  was  as  mournful  as 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  155 

after  that  eveut.     Still  there  was  no  want  of  action  in  her  life  : 


like  a  beautiful  nun  she  went  among  the  poor  and  suffering, 
and  soothed  the  couch  of  many  a  sorrowing  heart.  Like  soft 
moonlight,  she  shed  her  rays  on  the  bosom  of  the  afflicted,  and 
like  starry  night,  she  veiled  herself  and  departed. 

But  on  that  night  no  sun  ever  dawned.  She  awoke  in  sad- 
ness, and  laid  down  to  rest  in  the  depths  of  gloom.  Mrs.  Lin- 
den became  alarmed  with  her  continued  depression,  and  her 
love  of  solitude,  and  encouraged  her  to  seek  some  employment, 
hoping  that  actual  exertion  would  restore  her  to  cheerfulness. 
She  often  had  great  solicitude  regarding  the  change  she  had 
been  instrumental  in  producing  in  Flora's  destiny,  and  prayed 
that  she  might  in  this  world  reap  her  reward  for  the  sacrihce 
she  had  made.  She  felt  that  she  acted  conscientiously,  and  had 
advised  Flora  as  she  would  have  done  a  beloved  child,  and  this 
was  her  only  reward,  But  when  she  remembered  the  spark- 
ling joyousness  of  the  young  girl  that  used  to  bound  to  her 
embrace,  and  that  came  with  her  warm,  flushed  cheek,  and  scar- 
let lips,  from  her  interviews  with  her  beloved  guardian,  she 
could  not  but  sigii  to  look  upon  her  now.  And  yet  her  con- 
science whispered,  "  Have  I  not  saved  her,  perhaps,  from  deeper 
sorrow  ?"  Slie  knew  now  that  Flora,  instead  of  bestowing 
her  whole  heart  upon  an  earthly  idol,  in  her  closet,  before  the 
altar  of  her  God  and  Redeemer,  bowed  in  saint-like  humilia- 
tion. 

One  day,  at  the  close  of  autumn,  Mrs.  Linden  told  Flora 
that  she  should  be  obliged  to  leave  her,  and  perhaps  be  absent 
for  a  month.  She  urged  her  permission  to  provide  a  com- 
panion for  her  during  her  absence.  But  this  the  sad  girl 
firmly  declined,  and  said  that  she  should  be  happier  alone. 
The  house  they  lived  in  was  in  an  obscure  part  of  the  city, 
and  as  free  from  intrusion  as  if  in  the  heart  of  a  desert. 
Flora  was  generally  fearless.  It  was  society  only  that 
annoyed  her.  She  wandered  out  tow^ards  evening,  a  few 
weeks  after  Mrs.  Linden  had  left  her,  deeply  shrouded,  as  was 
her  wont,  in  black,  and  mechanically  threaded  many  streets 
without  apparent  end  or  purpose.  She  seemed  like  one  lost, 
and  finally  became  herself  bewildered.  She  was  in  the  busi- 
ness part  of  the  city,  and  lifted  her  veil  for  a  moment  to  look 
about  her  and  ascertain  her  location.  As  she  did  so,  Mr. 
Clarendon,  who  was  returning  home,  caught  a  view  of  hei 
well-known  features. 


156  Isoka's    Child. 

From  tlie  loss  of  her  bloom,  he  was  at  first  startled  and 
uncertain  ;  her  dress,  too,  was  almost  a  disguise.  She  did 
not  observe  him,  and  with  agitated  steps,  he  followed  her.  It 
was  growing  dark,  and  he  felt  that  his  presence  was  now 
a  protection  to  one  he  had  vowed  for  ever  to  guard.  At  a 
short  "distance  he  kept  pace  with  the  beautifid  vision,  that  a 
second  glance  assured  him  was  Flora.  As  she  hurried  onward, 
evidently  alarmed,  he  determined  to  see  her  safely  to  her 
abode,  wherever  it  might  be.  Thus  secredy  did  Louis  Claren- 
don follow  the  steps  of  one  he  had  once  fondly  and  passion- 
ately loved.  Her  veil  was  now  dropped,  and  the  nun-like 
Flora  hastened  on  with  light  and  fleet  steps  ;  but  she  was 
seen  also  by  another,  who  followed  her  more  closely,  and  whom 
Mr.  Clarendon  observed  she  avoided  with  terror.  Her  pursuer 
finally  came  to  her  side,  and  addressed  her. 

Flora  darted  like  a  wild  fawn  in  another  direction,  but  was 
still  followed  by  him.  Mr.  Clarendon  had  now  overtaken  both, 
and  wich  a  powerful  blow  thrust  from  off  the  pavement 
her  insulter,  and  by  the  side  of  Flora  still  wended  his 
way. 

The  latter  did  not  dare  look  up.  She  had  seen  the  man 
levelle<l  by  one  whom  she  did  not  observe  ;  and  as  Mr. 
Clarendon  did  not  speak,  he  was  not  recognized  by  the 
terrified  girl.  Her  door  was  a,t  length  reached,  when  she 
fleetly  ascended  the  steps  of  her  lonely  home.  It  was  dark, 
and  the  street  was  dimly  lighted. 

He  came  to  her  side,  and  whispered,  ''  Flora!"  She  turned 
and  felt  the  presence  of  her  worshiped  guardian. 

"  Speak  to  me  once,"  he  said,  as  she  caught  the  railing  for 
her  support  ;  "  tell  me  that  you  do  not  suffer.  I  have  pro- 
tected you  home.  For  God's  sake,  let  me  assist  you,  you  must 
be  jwor.  in  this  dismal  place." 

He  caught  the  hand  that  was  raised  to  open  the  door,  and 
held  it  in  both  his  own.  In  that  moment,  both  felt  to  suffo- 
cation, the  agitation  of  the  interview. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  murmured  Flora,  ''may  God  bless  you  for  all 
you  have  done — for  your  service  to-night.  Oh,  1  thought 
never  again  to  meet  you.     Go  now,  for  I  am  alone." 

"  Alone  !  dear  one  ;  where  is  your  friend  ?" 

"  I  know  not  ;  she  sometimes  leaves  me — good  bye  !"  the 
tones  of  Flora  sunk  like  lead  into  the  heart  of  her  old  guar- 
dian. 


I  s  o  R  A '  s    Child.  157 

"  Won  t  you  let  me  help  you,  Flora  ?  Oh,  afford  me  this 
comfort,"  he  still  urged. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  whispered  the  breathless  girl  ;  "  I  do  not  need 
much,  and  God  will  protect  the  orphan.  Let  me  give  you 
somethiug — my  farewell  gift.  Read  it,  if  you  e^er  loved 
me." 

Flora  slipped  into  the  hand  of  her  guardian,  a  small 
Bible,  and  released  the  hand  he  clasped  convulsively.  The 
door  closed  upon  Mr.  Clarendon,  and  he  was  left  to  return 
home. 


C^  AFTER     XII. 

"  A  little  nonsense  now  and  then 
Is  relished  by  the  best  of  men." 

ri^O  Rufus  Wilton,  life  had  recently  worn  a  new  aspect.  He 
1  had  grown  up  without  the  softening  effect  of  woman';? 
influence,  and  by  association  and  education  stood  in  danger  of 
becoming  selfish  and  callous.  Nature  had  made  him  refined 
and  afTcctionate  ;  but  without  sympathy  at  honie,  and  living  a 
life  of  purely  personal  gratification,  if  he  had  generous  im- 
pulses, as  yet  they  had  no  channel  in  which  to  flow. 

The  liberality  of  an  absent  uncle  compensated  for  the 
parsimony  of  his  father;  his  generous  remittances  supplying  him 
with  every  luxury  and  convenience.  But  the  extravagance 
of  the  young  man  was  chiefly  exhibited  in  his  passion  for 
books.  He  was  fond  of  literature,  but  as  yet  had  applied 
himself  to  no  profession,  and  being  naturally  liberal,  lavishly 
bestowed  his  money  without  purpose  or  profit.  But  he  was 
not  without  his  projects.  While  lying  upon  the  grass,  wait- 
ing apparently  with  undying  eagerness  for  tlie  bite  of  a 
fish,  his  mind  was  roving  in  another  region.  Filled,  as  it  was, 
with  lofty  aspirations,  he  was  far  from  being  satisfied  with  his 
useless  life.  The  fate  of  his  mother  so  much  absorbed  his 
thoughts,  that  he  became  often  visionary  with  his  hopes  and 
fears.  He  was  sometimes  sanguine  that  he  should  yet  find, 
and  make  her  happy  ;  then  his  heart  was  agonized  with  the 


158  Isora's    CniLD. 

certainty  of  his  belief,  that  she  had  died  neglected  and  broken- 
hearted. 

But  Rufus  Wilton  had  of  late  woke  to  a  more  flowery 
existence,  with  sweeter,  and  more  healthful  influences.  His 
admiration  and  heartfelt  preference  for  Cora  Livingston, 
had  been  evinced  in  their  occasional  interviews,  though  he  had 
dared  to  express  no  more,  or  to  ask  a  return — still  he  felt  that 
a  chain  of  sympathy  united  them. 

He  had  never  met  her  father  ;  he  knew  that  there  was 
some  difiiculty  between  his  own  and  the  Colonel,  but  having 
been  for  years  from  home,  he  had  not  learned  the  cause  of 
their  enmity,  and  knew  little  of  its  rancor.  The  sternness  of 
his  parent  towards  himself,  forbade  any  confidence  between 
them.  He  had  sometimes  alluded  to  his  mother  in  his 
presence,  but  as  it  evidently  excited  his  displeasure,  he  now 
never  approached  the  subject,  or  conversed  on  any  matter 
with  him  of  deeper  interest  than  the  daily  routine  of  common 
events. 

On  his  return  from  old  Goody's  cot'tage,  where  he  went  for 
his  horse  after  his  walk  home  with  Cora,  with  a  light  heart 
and  bounding  steed,  he  entered  the  avenue  of  his  home.  The 
tall  trees  arching  over  his  head,  had  never  appeared  to  him 
so  magnificent,  nor  their  sweeping  boughs  so  graceful  and 
beautiful,  as  they  now  seemed  waving  a  welcome  in  the  breeze. 
His  eye  wandered  down  far  among  the  willows,  and  fell  upon 
the  monuments  over  the  dead.  For  the  first  time  he  thought 
with  interest  on  the  names  there  inscribed  ;  hitherto  they  had 
been  only  associated  with  the  reckless  sports  of  his  childhood, 
when  he  had  there  resorted  to  roll  his  marbles,  or  play  at  hide 
and  seek,  among  the  neglected  grave-stones.  Now  they 
possessed  new  sanctity  in  his  eyes,  and  w^re  respected  as 
covering  the  ashes  of  the  departed,  and  those,  the  ancestors  of 
Cora  Livingston.  For  the  first  time,  he  thought  intently  upon 
the  enmity  between  their  parents,  and  resolved  to  look  into 
the  case  more  fully. 

As  he  dismounted  at  the  gate,  he  saw,  sitting  at  the  parlor 
window,  his  uncle  Peter,  in  company  with  the  daughter  of  a 
neighbor.  Miss  Sally  Sapp.  Captain  Sam  Sapp  sat  at  the 
other,  conversing  with  his  father. 

As  the  son  and  nephew  entered  the  room,  uncle  Peter 
exclaimed,  "Well,  young  foreigner,  we  have  an  unexpected 
pleasure  for  yon.     Miss  Sally  has  been  entertaining  me  very 


I  s  o  li  A '  s    Child.  159 

nicely,  but  I  know  she  would  like  a  young  beau  better  ;  and, 
having  a  negotiation  to  make  with  the  Captain,  I  wdl  consign 
her  to  you." 

To  say  that  Miss  Sally  was  interesting,  would  be  a  slander 
upon  her  sex,  but  that  she  excited  the  aversion  of  any  one, 
would  also  do  her  injustice,  for  she  was  not  one  to  inspire  so 
exciting  a  sentiment,  ^"o  one  could  look  into  her  round, 
good-natured  countenance,  out  of  which  shone  a  pair  of  eyes 
like  whortleberries  in  milk,  without  being  forced,  out  of  sym- 
pathy, to  laugh  with  her  gleesorae  face,  thongh  her  hilarity 
was  as  joyously  excited  by  the  feats  of  her  pet  spaniels,  one  of 
which  lay  in  her  lap,  as  at  the  merriest  farce  ever  enacted  ; 
and  her  sensibility  amused  as  effectively  by  the  screech  of  a 
Guinea  fowl,  as  with  the  most  thrilling  strains  of  music. 

Her  form  was  short  and  dumpy,  with  little  plump  hands, 
covered  with  jewels. 

At  the  address  of  uncle  Peter,  Rufus'  first  impulse  was  to 
escape  the  awkward  raillery  he  was  confident  would  ensue  ; 
but  his  situation  forbade  a  retreat,  and  he  philosophically 
resigned  himself  to  it.  Uncle  Peter  was  delighted  with  the 
success  of  his  manoeuvre,  for  which  he  gave  himself  great 
credit  ;  for  what  so  likely,  thought  he,  to  bring  about  a 
match  as  to  "get  the  y«ung  people  together." 

With  an  air  of  satisfaction  he  drew  himself  up,  thrusting  his 
hands  into  a  pair  of  ample  pockets,  and  stood  before  the 
''young  couple"  which  he  had  mated,  to  hear  what  they  had 
to  say  ;  but  finding  that  Miss  Sally  did  little  else  but  play 
with  her  finger-rings,  and  his  nephew  pull  the  ears  of  her  lap- 
dog,  which  he  had  drawn  into  his  own  lap,  he  concluded  that 
"  he'd  be  moving,"  while  he  silently  marvelled  that  such  a 
small  specimen  of  an  animal  could  take  his  attention  from  what 
he  called  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  country  ;  he  only  wished 
that  he  was  younger. 

Rufus  found  Miss  Sally  much  easier  to  entertain  than  he 
had  fancied.  Still  he  was  provoked  with  his  uncle  for  his 
officiousness,  and  determined  to  repay  him  before  night.  He 
had  only  to  stand  Snip  on  his  hind-legs,  and  make  him  "  bark 
Spanish,"  to  stroke  his  silken  ears,  and  admire  his  glittering 
collar,  to  bring  all  the  smiles  to  her  cheek  that  a  Cuban  ever 
wore.  But  of  this  amusement,  he  soon  wearied,  when  he 
restored  the  pet  to  his  mistress,  into  whose  lap  he  curled,  as  if 


160  IsoKA'sCniLD. 

he  had  no  doubt  of  his  title  to  possession.  Wilton  was  glad 
that  Cora  kept  no  lapdog. 

Frisk  had  none  of  Snip's  effeminacy.  He  was  a  dog  that 
stood  on  his  own  legs  ;  tail  and  ears  up,  and  ran  before  and 
after  Cora  in  a  manner  entirely  independent.  He  was  also  a 
dog  that  asked  no  favors,  bat  seemed  much  more  gratified  to 
confer  them  ;  and  old  Goody  never  made  a  more  calumnious 
insinuation  than  when  she  hinted  that  Frisk  might  have  put 
his  nose  in  her  basket.  He  also  despised  wine  and  cake,  which 
Snip  chiefly  lived  on  ;  in  short,  Snip  and  Frisk  were  different 
dogs,  and  Rufus  Wilton  held  them  in  very  different  estimation. 
But  Snip  was  so  much  a  part  of  Miss  Sally  Sapp  that  he  could 
not  expel  him  from  his  presence  as  unceremoniously  as  he  felt 
inclined  to  do,  when  he  put  his  pug  nose  in  his  glass  of  wine. 

"  He  won't  drink  it,"  said  Miss  Sally,  apologetically.  "He 
likes  sherry  cobblers  best.  He  only  wants  to  know  whether  it 
is  Port  or  Madeira." 

Wilton  felt  much  inclined  to  give  him  a  taste  of  a  mud- 
puddle  ;  but  had  the  prudence  not  to  express  his  sentiments. 
His  patience  becoming  wearied  with  his.  insipid  company,  he 
asked  Miss  Sally  if  she  liked  flowers,  and  as  she  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  he  proposed  going  to  the  green-house  ;  first 
informing  Miss  Sapp  that  the  sun  was  too  hot  for  her  to 
accompany  him  ;  and  as  Snip  had  just  composed  himself  for  a 
nap,  it  was  inconvenient  for  her  to  rise  until  he  awoke — so 
circumstances  favored  her  gallant  companion. 

After  a  long  absence,  he  returned  with  a  bunch  of  flowers 
not  deficient  in  quantity. 

Rufus  had  forgotten  his  errand  after  his  escape,  and  after  a 
long  ramble,  and  a  conversation  with  the  gardener,  he  remem- 
bered his  ostensible  errand.  The  green-house  was  at  a  distance, 
and  as  he  was  wearied,  he  dispatched  a  servant  for  the  bouquet. 
The  boy  returned  with  a  variety,  such  as  had  pleased  him, 
among  which  snap-dragons  and  four  o'clocks  abounded. 

Wilton  looked  at  the  collection  equivocally.  However,  he  did 
not  know  Miss  Sally's  taste,  and  ventured  to  present  them 
with  a  dubious  smile.  She  expressed  herself,  much  to  his  satis- 
faction, greatly  pleased  with  them,  declaring  that  "  snap-dragons 
were  her  delight,"  and  immediately  evinced  her  appreciation 
of  the  "live  for  ever  "  mixed  up  with  them,  by  laying  the  leaves 
separately  upon  her  tongue,  and  blowing  up  the  silken  partition 


I  S  O  li  a'  S      C  II  I  L  D  .  1  01 

that  forms  its  iimcr  coating — thus  affording  her  eutertaiumeiit 
until  dinner. 

After  the  meal  was  over,  Uncle  Peter,  who  had  watched 
the  presentation  of  the  flowers,  and  Miss  Sally's  good-natured 
smile,  which  he  grew  more  enamored  with,  now  proposed  that 
Rufus  should  give  her  a  drive  after  his  ponies.  The  nephew 
unconsciously  grew  red  with  vexation,  at  the  proposition, 
but  as  it  was  made  in  presence  of  the  lady,  he  could  only  bow 
assent.  Miss  Sally  satisfactorily  acquiesced,  though  she  feared 
that  "  Snip  was  getting  ill,  he  seemed  so  languid." 

Uncle  Peter,  who  was  always  ready  to  "oblige  young  peo- 
ple," proposed  bringing  round  the  vehicle  himself — his  nephew, 
meanwhile,  assisting  the  lady  in  enveloping  her  person  with  a 
shawl,  while  he  discussed  his  uncle's  amiable  qualities,  which 
he  said  were  particularly  exhibited  in  his  gallantry  to  ladies. 

The  carriage  finally  came  to  the  door,  when  Rufus  begged 
his  uncle  to  remain  seated,  and  to  hold  Snip  until  he  helped 
in  Miss  Sapp,  which  Uncle  Peter  most  obligingly  did,  keeping 
meanwhile  the  reins.  The  dog  had  eaten  too  much  brandy 
peach  with  dinner,  and  gave  symptoms  of  illness,  which  much 
disturbed  Miss  Sally,  and  grew  alarming  to  Uncle  Peter,  who 
held  him  upon  his  lap ;  but  the  lady  being  now  seated,  he  made 
manifestations  of  transferring  the  afflicted  animal  to  his  nephew, 
and  also  his  seat,  while  he  held  out  the  reins  to  him,  but  the 
obliging  young  gentleman  had  retreated,  while  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Keep  your  seat,  uncle,  I  beg  of  you — can't  think  of  depriv- 
ing you  of  the  pleasure." 

"But,  Rufe  !"  loudly  exclaimed  Uncle  Peter. 

"  No  thanks,  uncle,"  cried  WUton,  with  a  gallant  wave  of  the 
hand — "  Will  get  ahead  of  you  next  time." 

"  But  my  engagements,  Rufe,"  shouted  the  uncle. 

But  "  Rufe  "  was  in  the  distance  while  sounds  were  coming 
indistinctly  on  his  ear,  which  much  resembled  vociferations 
relating  to  business. 

The  nephew  did  not  reply,  but  inwardly  hoped  that  for  the 
future  his  worthy  relative  would  attend  to  it  when  he  had 
nothing  more  important  to  do. 

The  result  of  his  uncle's  unexpected  drive  with  a  lady,  which 
he  was  afraid  rumor  might  "get  around,"  and  subject  him  to 
suspicions,  embarrassing  to  a  "  bachelor  of  his  age,"  his  nephew 
had  no  curiosity  to  ascertain  ;  but  he  had  the  satisfaction,  to- 
wards evening,  of  seeing  his  uncle  alight  safely  with  Miss  Sally, 


162  Isoha's    Child. 

at  lier  father's  residence,  though  the  redness  of  his  face  in- 
creased to  vermilion  when  he  perceived  that  a  number  of  his 
acquaintances  were  awaiting  his  return,  and  that  he  was  com- 
pelled, after  helping  out  his  companion,  to  return  for  the  dog, 
which  he  brought  out  bj  his  hind  legs,  stiff  in  a  fit  !  Miss 
Sally's  face  was  colorless  with  fright  for  her  favorite  ;  a  tab- 
leau which  Rufus  enjoyed  at  a  distance,  feeling  it,  however, 
prudent  to  withold  his  sympathy. 


CHAPTER     XIII. 

The  cold  in  clime,  are  cold  in  blood  ; 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name  ; 
But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

That  boils  in  Etna's  breast  of  flame. 


Hj'^HE  same  evening,  after  Mr.  Clarendon's  interview  with 
X  Flora,  on  the  steps  of  her  humble  home,  he  resorted  to  the 
house  of  a  lady  where  he  had  been  invited  to  attend  a  brilliant 
fete.  As  he  entered  the  festive  saloon,  music  greeted  him 
with  her  syren  voice,  and  gladsome  smiles  from  the  gay  and 
beautiful  came  dazzling  on  his  vision.  The  contrast  to  Flora's 
tones — her  mournful  dark  eyes — was  like  that  of  a  funeral 
dirge,  its  hearse  and  plumes,  to  the  merriest  band  of  inspiring 
music. 

He  had  already  steeped  his  senses  in  wine,  endeavoring,  as 
he  quaffed  the  goblet,  to  forget  the  sad,  nun-like  vision.  After 
chatting  familiarly  with  his  hostess,  he  was  accosted,  jocularly, 
by  a  gentleman,  on  his  late  indifference  to  society,  which  he 
said  could  in  no  way  be  better  accounted  for  than  in  the  absorbing- 
interest  which  he  had  recently  taken  in  the  Livingston  and  Wil- 
ton case.  '*  They  say,"  said  Mr.  Rodney,  ''  that  the  little 
Villacora  beauty  is    the  attraction   to  you,   up  the  Hudson. 

Miss  Livingston,  of  Place,  tells  me  that  she  shall  send 

for  her  to  come  to  town  this  winter.  We  hear  that  she  is  a 
little  Venus." 

**  Miss  Cora  Livingston,  Mr.  Rodney,"  replied  Mr.  Claren- 
don, *' is  not  such  a  little  beauty.    She  is  of  medium  height.    I 


Is  oka's    Child.  1G3 

know  little  of  her  plans.  I  have  been  much  occupied  with 
some  business  of  the  Colonel,  which  has  carried  me  often  to 
his  place.  However,  I  do  not  deny  my  admiration  of  his 
daughter.  But  I  believe  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  rumor 
has  assigned  me  a  wife." 

"  By  no  means  !  But  the  most  absurd  report  was,  that  you 
were  going  to  marry  that  dark-eyed  singer  that  you  were  so 
romantic  as  to  adopt,  educate,  and  then  secrete  somewhere, 
out  of  the  sight  of  the  scores  of  admirers  that  she  had  enslaved 
with  her  mysterious  beauty,  which  the  great  difiQculty  of  get- 
ting a  glimpse  of,  made  the  more  fascinating.  Pray  where  is 
she,  Clarendon  ?  You  are  like  the  dog  in  the  manger,  in  your 
management  of  her." 

Mr.  Clarendon  laughed  slightly,  and  denied  the  accusation, 
saying,  '*  That  Miss  Islington  had  gone  to  her  friends,  and  that 
he  had  known  little  of  her  of  late."  Then  hastily  turning  the 
subject,  he  inquired  "  who  was  that  richly  dressed  lady  sitting 
in  the  distance,  eyeing  him  through  a  glass  V 

''  She  has  certainly  her  eye  on  you.  Clarendon,"  said  Mr. 
Rodney  ;  "  but  you  will  have  to  parlez  vous  in  her  dear  delight- 
ful tongue,  or  stand  no  chance  of  securing  her  smiles." 

"  Who's  the  portly  gentleman,  near  by  ?" 

"  That  is,  by  courtesy,  her  husband.  He  is  as  quiet  as  an 
old  mastiff ;  makes  it  a  point  to  dislike  what  madame  adores  ; 
hates  dancing  ;  despises  parties,  and  but  for  the  supper,  would, 
I  suppose,  have  absented  himself  entirely.  They  have  just  ar- 
rived, or  she  would  not  be  so  outre  as  to  be  seen  with  him 
to-night.  He  is  now  retreating,  and  wishing  himself,  I'll  be 
bound,  on  an  East  India  cruise.  Come  forward,  and  I'll  present 
you." 

"Old,  Monsieur/'  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  good-lmmoredly, 
glad  of  any  excitement  to  divert  his  thoughts. 

The  approach  of  Mr.  Clarendon  towards  Madame  Delano, 
gave  occasion  for  the  exhibition  of  new  graces  on  the  part  of 
the  Frenchified  belle,  who  hailed  the  acquaintance  of  one  so 
distinguished  and  popular  with  delight,  as  affording  her  a 
new  and  exciting  field  for  tlie  display  of  her  coquettish  charms, 
and  with  the  novelty  and  amusement  she  afibrded  him,  Mr. 
Clarendon  banished  Flora  from  his  mind — a  vision  dispelled  by 
an  affected  devotee  to  fashion — a  butterfly  made  seemingly  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine  of  society,  one  not  capable  of  conversa- 
tion, but  who  could,  with  a  grace  peculiarly  her  own,  toss  over 


104  I  s  o  p.  A'  s    Child. 

the  airy  uothiiiu's  that  float  on  the  surface  of  gay  assemblies, 
pleasing  and  bewildering  for  the  moment,  but  forgotten  with 
the  last  brush  of  her  glittering  wings.  She  was,  however, 
sufficiently  fascinating  to  keep  him  at  her  side  most  of  the 
evening.  Until  near  morning  he  lingered  in  the  gay  assem- 
blage, and,  ere  he  sought  his  rest,  had  drank  the  deepest 
draughts  from  pleasure's  bowl.  As  feverish  dreams  disturbed 
his  slumber,  the  eyes  of  his  once-loving  Flora  were  fixed  upon 
him,  and  when  the  sweet,  young  face  of  Cora  appeared  to 
chase  away  the  phantom,  it  wore  a  cold,  reproachful  look. 

The  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  long  excluded,  came  struggling 
through  the  window-shades  of  his  apartment — they  fell  upon 
a  picture  of  himself,  when  a  boy.  The  countenance  cf  the 
youth  was  ingenuous  and  noble,  and  feeling  and  intellect 
beamed  forth  from  the  child's  young  face.  He  was  standing 
by  the  side  of  his  mother,  dressed  in  a  loose  sack  of  purple 
velvet,  with  white  trowsers,  while  his  collar  lay  open  widely 
on  the  neck,  covered  with  flowing  dark  hair. 

Decision  and  manliness  already  showed  itself  in  the  curled 
lip  and  eye  of  fire,  as  upon  his  parent  he  gazed  affectionately. 
She  was  represented  as  a  tall,  dignified  woman,  with  beauty  of 
countenance  and  sweetness  of  expression,  and  looked  upon  her 
son  with  an  eye  of  doting  affection.  As  Louis  Clarendon 
cot-emplated  the  picture,  he  contrasted  himself  with  the  boy 
as  he  stood,  the  image  of  nobleness  and  truth.  He  shut  his 
eyes  and  looked  within.  What  did  he  there  find,  but  dupli- 
city, selfishness  and  worldly  ambition,  for  which  he  would 
sacrifice  the  dearest  object  of  his  love.  With  cunning  sophis- 
try, he  soothed  a  conscience  by  no  means  dead,  a  heart's 
compunctions,  not  callous  or  unsusceptible.  He  looked 
within,  and  l3elieved  that  Cora  Livingston  was  sent  him  by 
Heaven  as  his  guardian  angel," to  restore  him  to  purity  and 
peace  of  conscience.  He  consoled  himself  for  his  heartless 
course  towards  Flora,  by  the"  thought  that  as  his  wife  he  could 
never  make  her  happy,  with  her  peculiar  tastes  and  foreign 
characteristics.  He  thought  of  her  passionate,  vehement 
nature,  which,  from  a  child,  had  been  governed  by  a  strong 
will,  and  wild  impulses;  of  the  brilliancy  of  her  eye,  of  her 
flashing  color,  which  in  health  and  happiness  had  made  her 
cheek  so  radiant,  and  how  easily  revulsion  of  feeling,  with 
his  exacting  self-indulgent  nature,  might  change  into  the  whirl- 
wind and  tempest  the  spirit  now  so  calm  and  unruffled.     That 


Isoka's    Child.  165 

he  still  loved  her,  his  quickeniug  pulse,  and  fervid  emotion 
told  him,  and  he  felt  the  sacrifice  that  he  made  when  he 
resigned  the  thought  of  her  as  his  wife.  He  contrasted  her 
with  the  fair  child-like  Cora,  with  her  gentle  nature,  and  sweet 
dignity,  that  made  her  in  society  an  object  of  pride  as  well  as 
love.  He  was  aggravated  and  excited  by  Flora's  rejection  of 
his  favors,  and  of  the  indifference  with  which  she  shunned  him, 
voluntarily  suffering  sacrifice  and  privation,  rather  than  be  in- 
debted to  one  who  had  supported  her  from  childhood,  and  who 
had  vowed  to  her  dying  mother  to  be  her  guardian  and  guide. 
Thus  did  the  credulous  sophist  cheat  himself  into  the  belief 
that  he  was  acting  wisely  and  nobly. 

Flora  had  shut  the  door  upon  her  guardian,  and  in  violent 
emotion,  thrown  herself  upon  her  bed,  to  grieve  alone. 
Through  a  sleepless  night  she  tossed  in  anguish  of  spirit. 

That  hour  with  her  guardian  had  worked  in  her  a  change. 
She  had  heard  again  the  voice  that  had  been  her  life,  had  seen 
the  glance  of  an  eye,  that  even  in  the  starlight  she  felt  like  fire 
coursing  through  her  veins  ;  and  felt  the  pressure  of  a  hand 
whose  touch  was  yet  magical.  Her  good  resolutions  deserted 
her,  and  in  passionate  emotion  she  clung  to  her  old  love,  and 
abandoned  herself  to  his  guidance.  While  under  the  madden- 
ing conflict,  Mrs,  Linden  returned. 

In  the  vehemence  of  her  feelings.  Flora  came  to  her  friend, 
and  throwing  herself  beside  her,  said,  "  Don't  welcome  me, 
don't  kiss  me,  hate  me  if  you  will  ;  but  I  am  going  home,  home. ; 
where  I  have  been  happy,  where  the  rose  will  come  back  to  m;^ 
cheek,  and  love  awaits  me.  I  have  seen  him,  and  he  loves  me 
still.  I  spurned  his  offers  of  kindness,  but  it  nearly  broke  my 
heart  ;  and  now,  if  I  peril  my  soul,  I  am  going  back  to  my 
guardian." 

"Flora,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  "you  are  ill,  your 
face  is  as  colorless  as  marble,  your  lips  are  white,  and  your 
hands  tremble.  What  has  happened  ?  Let  me  soothe  you. 
Come  to  me,  my  poor  stricken  one." 

Flora's  head  fell  on  the  knees  of  her  friend,  while  she  parted 
her  hair,  and  bathed  her  throbbing  temples.  For  a  while  the 
pale  girl  seemed  passive.  Mrs.  Linden  rubbed  her  cold  hands, 
and  offered  her  a  cordial,  which  she  hoped  would  restore  her 
to  composure  and  reason.  But  Flora  soon  rose,  and  while  sha 
retreated  from  her  friend,  said  : 

"  Why  would  you  have  me  di^  ?" 


.166  Isoka's    Child. 

"Flora,  my  cl.ikl,"  answered  Mrs.  Linden,  "  tbe  •'^pirK  of 
evil  is  wrestling'  with  you.  Go  to  your  closet,  and  on  your 
knees,  before  the  God  you  profess  to  love,  pray  that  it 
may  pass  from  you,  and  that  He  will  leave  you  in  the  posses- 
sion of  that  '  peace  which  passeth  all  understandin,g^.'  Flora, 
God  will  not  permit  this  insanity  to  govern  you.  He  will  not 
withhold  his  Holy  Spirit,  for  you  have  given  yourself  to  Him, 
and  he  holds  you  yet  in  the  *  hollow  of  His  hand.'  Remember 
that  you  have  the  power  to  resist  wrong,  and  to  cling  to  the 
anchor  that  will  be  your  safety  in  life  and  your  hope  in  death. 
Flora,  where  have  you  seen  him  ?" 

"  Last  night.  I  cannot  listen  to  you — cast  me  off' — I  am 
going."  While  Mrs.  Linden  held  the  hand  of  the  infatuated 
girl  with  a  firm  grasp,  Flora  wrested  it  from  her,  and  fled  to 
her  chamber. 

Mrs  Linden  went  to  her  own,  and  there  prayed  fervently 
for  protection  and  guidance  in  behalf  of  the  orphan  child  of 
her  adoption.  An  hour  after,  with  streaming  eyes  and  tones 
of  love,  she  sought  Flora. 

When  she  entered  the  room  where  she  supposed  her  still  to 
be,  consternation  filled  her  soul.     The  wretched  girl  had  fled  ! 

With  hasty  steps  she  had  sought  her  apartment,  arrayed 
herself  in  her  deep  black  dress,  and  glided  softly  down  the 
staircase.  She  saw  Mrs.  Linden  on  her  knees,  weeping  and 
praying  for  her.  She  covered  her  eyes,  and  dropping  her  thick 
veil,  passed  quickly  out.  After  a  long  walk  she  found  herself 
at  the  door  of  her  guardian's  house.  She  thought  that  at  this 
hour  he  was  absent  ;  and  that  in  her  dress  she  could  gain  admit- 
ance  unknown.  But  she  was  mistaken.  The  moment  that 
Benson  had  caught  a  view  of  her  hair  and  eyes,  she  recognized 
the  ward  of  her  master,  who  had  more  than  a  year  since  fled. 
But  to  her  low  inquiry  for  him,  she  said  nothing  ;  her  curiosity 
was  excited,  and  she  allowed  her  to  pass  in.  Flora  then  went 
softly,  and  with  a  trembling  step,  to  the  library.  There  lay  Sap- 
pho by  his  master's  table,  and  all  things  beautiful  and  luxurious 
as  she  had  left  them.  The  dog  knew  her,  and  jumped  upon  her 
while  he  licked  the  hand  that  caressed  him.  She  hugged  him 
about  the  neck,  and  cried  passionately.  She  looked  all  about 
the  room.  She  opened  the  books  her  guardian  had  been  read- 
ing ;  and  looked  at  the  flowers  that  she  had  loved  and  left. 
She  threw  off  her  bonnet  and  approached  the  mirror  that  once 
reflected  her  dazzling  beauty.     She  saw  that  she  was  changed, 


Isoka's    Guild.  167 

and  her  face  as  colorless  as  marble  ;  but  believed  if  had  loved 
as  she  had  done,  it  would  not  afi'eet  him.  She  watched  the 
clock,  and  knew  that  he  must  soon  come.  With  breathless 
suspense  she  listened  !  Her  heart  stood  still,  then  beat  as  if 
it  would  burst  its  prison,  A  burning  flush  had  now  arisen 
where  but  recently  her  cheek  was  deadly  pale.  The  fever  of 
excitement  had  made  her  lips  like  threads  of  scarlet,  and  her 
eyes  lustrous  as  burning  coals.  She  hears  him  coming — he 
enters  the  adjoining  parlor.  He  is  wearied,  and  throws  him- 
self upon  a  sofa.  Sappho  bounds  to  meet  him  ;  but  he  does 
not  regard  him.  His  eyes  are  on  a  letter.  It  was  from 
Colonel  Livingston.  He  reads  part  of  it  aloud.  Flora 
listens.  She  cannot  run  to  meet  him,  her  feet  are  paralyzed. 
He  must,  he  will  seek  her  in  the  library,  where  they  had  so 
often  sat. 

From  the  old  sofa,  her  favorite  seat,  she  gazes  on  her  idol- 
she  feasts  her  eyes  on  his  brow,  his  form,  and  with  clasped 
hands  sinks  motionless  While  she  looked,  he  drew  for  the 
first  time  from  his  pocket,  the  little  gift  which  she  had  given 
him  the  previous  night — her  Bil)le  ! — the  sacred  book  that  she 
had  loved  for  its  holy  truths.  He  whom  she  loved  so  idola- 
trously,  so  wickedly  (for  she  now  felt  that  for  him  she  was 
casting  out  her  God  and  Saviour),  had  opened  the  holy  page, 
iiud  she  had  come  to  dash  it  from  his  hand,  and  abandon  herself 
to  his  love,  regardless  of  her  soul's  welfare  or  his.  She  saw 
him  turn  over  the  book — look  at  the  cover — at  the  title-page, 
and  there  read  her  name — and  then  aloud  the  passages  which 
she  had  marked  : 

"  Come  unto  me,"  he  read  in  a  low  voice,  "  all  ye  that  labor 
and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  He  then 
laid  the  book  over  his  eyes,  and  Flora  knew  not  whether  his 
repose  was  that  of  sleep  or  prayer.  She  knew  not,  and  guar- 
dian angels  were  about  her,  Mrs.  Linden's  prayer  of  faith  was 
answered.  Stealthily,  penitently,  she  passed  through  the  hall, 
while  he  remained  quiet,  and  opened  the  outer  door,  and 
proceeded  back  to  her  weeping,  distracted  friend  ;  wearied  and 
haggard  she  appeared  before  her,  and  clasping  her  knees  cried, 
"  God  has  been  my  deliverer — I  am  again  his  own — I  have 
seen  him,  but  he  has  not  known  of  my  weakness — God  only 
knows  how  deeply  I  have  erred.  Will  He  forgive  me  ?"  she 
cried  with  streaming  eyes. 

Mrs.  Linden  held  the  weeping,  penitent  girl  long  and  silently 


1G3  I  s  o  Fv  a'  s    Child. 

to  her  heart,  and  then  bade  her  pray  for  forgiveness  and  go  to 
her  rest.  The  great  struggle  was  over,  and  Flora  awoke 
the  following  morning  with  serenity  and  peace  beaming  on  her 
face.     The  storm  had  passed  over,  a.nd  left  her  unscathed. 

From  an  adjoining  room,  Benson  had  seen  Flora;  her  keen 
eyes  had  watched  her  movements,  and  with  satisfaction  she  saw 
her  depart.     She  determhied  to  keep  her  secret. 


CHAPTER     XIY. 

How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  eye 
Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  room. 

Byron. 

AFTER  Cora's  interview  with  her  father,  having  relieved  her 
mind  of  its  Imrden  respecting  her  accidental  acquaintance 
with  young  Wilton,  and  also  having  told  him  of  Mr.  Clarendon's 
proposal,  she  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow  peacefully,  notwith- 
standing her  father's  displeasure.  She  did  not  realize  the 
depth  of  his  animosity  towards  the  Wilton  family.  As  a 
flower  opens  its  fresh  petals  to  the  sun,  so  she  unclosed  her 
violet  eyes  to  look  forth  upon  a  joyous  summer  morning.  Her 
sleep  had  been  sweet  and  dreamless,  and  the  dimples  nestling 
in  her  cheeks  as- ready  for  play  as  ever.  She  first  saw  a  little 
withered  bud  upon  her  toilet  table,  which  the  tenderest  care 
could  no  longer  preserve.  It  brought  a  girl's  soft  sigh  from 
her  breast,  breathing  little  sadness.  Her  toilette  was  slowly 
])erformed,  while  she  lifted  the  veil  from  her  heart,  and  dwelt 
upon  the  sweet  memories  there  treasured,  and  but  for  her 
mirror  suddenly  reflecting  her  unarrayed  beauty,  she  might 
have  idled  away  another  hour  of  sunlight,  all  occasioned  by  a 
little  crumbling,  flower,  which  would  soon  be'dust.  Cora  was 
often  negligent  in  housekeeping  matters,  and  sometimes  forgot 
tliat  Judy  was  busier  below  in  mischief  than  in  the  performance 
of  her  duty,  while  she  was  either  sleeping,  or  dreaming  wide 
awake.  But  this  morning  she  was  more  tardy  than  usual,  not- 
withstanding her  "little  help"  had  twice  told  her  that 
"  breakfast  was  ready  :"  an  announcement  for  which  the  odor  of 
i-offco,  long  inhaled,  had  prepared  her.     Old  Goody  had,  also, 


I  s  o  R  a'  s    Child.  169 

been  up  to  see  her,  and  brought  her  a  bunch  of  feather-few 
and  sweet  marjoram.  While  she  was  dressing,  she  often  won- 
dered why  her  father  did  not  like  her  young  friend  better,  for 
certainly  he  seemed  to  her  very  pleasant,  and  very  kind  She 
filially  concluded  that  his  dislike  all  arose  from  not  knowing 
him  ;  and  with  this  reflection  she  tripped  down  to  breakfast. 

She  found  that  the  Colonel  had  not  waited  for  her,  and  wns 
preparing  for  a  horseback  ride.  The  animal  he  was  intending 
to  mount  stood  pawing  the  turf  in  front  of  the  cottage.  She 
came  out  to  see  her  father  ride  off,  and  was  somewhat  alarmed 
when  she  saw  a  manifestation  of  rebellion  on  the  part  of  the 
horse  to  the  saddle,  to  which  he  was  unaccustomed,  as  he  was 
exhibiting  fearfully  his  wild  propensities.  Cora  anxiously 
watched  the  contest  between  him  and  his  new  charger,  which 
reared  and  seemed  to  disdain  both  saddle  and  rider.  She  beg- 
ged her  father  to  dismount,  but  the  Colonel  persevered  in  the 
struggle,  and  finally  settled  his  restive  steed  into  a  canter, 
when  he  rode  off  the  grounds  with  satisfaction. 

Cora  then  went  in  to  her  breakfast,  which  meal  wa^  enlivened 
by  many  remarks  of  Judy's  respecting  the  horse's  "  scary  ears 
and  his  kicking  ups  ;"  which  dissertation  digressed  to  the  risky 
state  of  the  hen-coops,  where  the  foxes  and  coons  got  in  every 
night,  unless  Sophy  and  her  negro  friends  had  night  suppers 
on  the  chickens.  This  she  thought  as  likely  as  not,  and  was 
sure  one  morning  she  saw  bones  around  the  kitchen.  To  all 
this  Cora  listened  with  an  unconcerned  ear,  which  Judy  took 
lor  listening,  so  she  went  on  till  she  came  to.  the  narrative  of 
the  cat's  extensive  family,  she  having  found  seven  blind-eyed 
kittens  that  morning  in  the  barn.  But  even  to  this  announce- 
ment Cora  did  not  wake  up,  for  she  felt  much  worried  about 
the  ugly  horse  which  her  father  had  ridden.  Vicious  he  was, 
she  beheved,  for  Jamie  had  told  her  so  the  day  before,  and 
now  she  had  seen  his  dreadful  capers,  of  which  Judy  talked. 
But  her  father  was  now  out  of  sight,  and  she  could  only  remain 
waiting  patiently  for  his  return  ;  so  in  the  meantime  she  busied 
herself  about  the  house,  taking  care  always  to  ask  every  one 
she  met,  either  in  the  kitchen  or  on  the  grounds,  if  they  thought 
"  Jerry"  was  safe  ;  and  as  all  that  saw  her  anxious  face  told 
her  there  was  no  cause  for  alarm,  she  dismissed  her  fears,  and 
commenced  counting  up  the  silver,  while  Judy  sung  "'  Blue-eyed 
Mary  "  through  her  nose,  being  busy  putting  away  the  sugar- 
bowl.     The  "  little  help,"  finally  overburde  .ed  with  thought, 

8 


170  Isora's    Child. 

told  Cora  that  ''there  was  a  young  man  went  by  the  gate  that 
morning  that  looked  in." 

"  Very  innocent  amusement,"  said  Cora,  smiling. 

"  But  he  looked  when  he  went  back,  too,"  said  Judy. 

"  How  happened  you  to  see  him  ?"  said  Cora,  while  she  wiped 
the  salt-spoons,  and  patted  down  the  salt  with  the  bowl  of 
one  of  them. 

"  Oh  !  1  was  swinging  on  the  gate  seeing  Bill  Jenkins 
catch  bis  pig,  and  laughing  to  see  the  critter  run  the  t'other 
way,  when  I  see  the  young  man  go  by.  He  had  a  heap  o'hair 
and  a  cap  on,  and  he  sorter  held  his  head  up  like  our  old  gob- 
ler,  when  he  feels  big.  But  he  didn't  seem  proud  either  ;  he 
shook  hands  with  Goody,  and  kinder  nodded  to  me.  I  had  a 
notion  to  ask  him  in,  but  thought  as  your  pa  hadn't  shaved, 
and  you  wasn't  up,  he  wouldn't  care  to  see  me  and  Sophy — 
besides  my  apron  was  ragged." 

"Judy,  you  shouldn't  be  swinging  on  the  gate  so  early  in 
the  morning,  nor  indeed  at  any  time,"  said  Cora.  "  Wliere 
was  this  gentleman  going  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  birdin',  I  guess,  he  had  some  snipe,  I  believe,  in  his 
pocket.  I  dodged  when  I  see  his  gun  ;  this  made  him 
laugh.  He's  got  queer  eyes,  ain't  he  ?  They  look  straight 
into  you." 

"Judy,  you  mustn't  talk  so  mucli  ;  make  haste  and  comf' 
away  from  that  cupboard.    You've  been  there  ten  minutes." 

"  I  was  only  pickin'  over  the  berries,  and  sugaring  'em. 
^ow  I'll  put  somethin'  over  'em  to  keep  the  flies  out. 
How  your  pa  hates  flies  !  They  is  disagreeable,  'specially 
in  'lasses — I'll  warrant  they  won't  get  into  these  berries." 

"  I  think,  Judy,  if  you  was  to  shut  the  cupboard  door, 
you  would  be  more  likely  to  keep  out  the  flies,  than  stand- 
ing there  so  long  over  them,  with  the  open  sugar-bowl,"  said 
Cora. 

"  Likely,"  said  Judy  ;  "  Xow  shan't  I  fix  the  cake  for  tea." 

"  No,"  said  Cora,  "  1  don't  wish  it  cut  in  the  morning.  Go 
and  help  Sophy.'' 

"  I'd  a  heap  rather  help  you.  Niggers  is  queer,  and  kind 
o'  orderiuG:.  They  likes  chickens  and  sweet  things,  don't  they. 
Miss  Cora?" 

The  "little  help"  now  rolled  up  her  great  brown  eyes, 
and  drew  down  her  mouth  as  far  from  her  nose  as  was 
convenient"-  while  she  smoothed  her  hands  over  her  linen  apron. 


Isoka's    Child.  171 

"'Come,  then,  if  you  want  to  help  me,"  said  Cora,  "go 
and  wash  your  hands,  and  you  and  1  will  stone  these  raisins." 

This  was  just  the  business  Judy  liked,  she  having  an  expe- 
ditious way  of  conveying  anything  to  her  mouth,  without 
seeming  to  retard  her  progress  in  work.  So  the  "  little  help  '' 
flew,  like  a  Shanghai  fowl,  out  of  the  room  ;  her  dress  being 
short,  making  the  resemblance  in  the  legs  especially  observ- 
able ;  and  being  soon  made  ready  for  the  stoning  occupa- 
tion, sat  down  with  her  young  mistress,  dish  and  penknife  in 
hand. 

Judy,  Cora  found  to  be  a  diligent  hand  at  her  business, 
though  fewer  raisins  piled  up  in  the  dish  than  seemed  consis- 
tent with  her  dexterity.  Judy,  too,  talked  as  fast  as  she 
worked,  and  while  performing  her  sleight-of-hand  tricks  with 
the  raisins,  observed,  "  that  the  -gentleman  seemed  kinder 
skairt  last  night,  when  she  told  him  about  the  fox."  She 
said  it  made  her  laugh  when  she  bust  on  to  the  piazza,  to  see 
him  straighten  up." 

"Hush,  Judy,  and  attend  to  your  work,"  said  Cora,  hei 
cheek  reddening. 

"  Ain't  you  kinder  warm,  Miss  Cory  ?" 

"  No — what  do  you  do  with  the  stones,  Judy  ?" 

"  1  eats  'em.  He  kinder  likes  you,  I  guess — that  ci*ty  man," 
said  Judy,  filling  her  mouth. 

"  What  makes  you  think  anything  so  foolish,  Judy  ?" 

"  I  knows  what  I  sees,  Miss  Cory.  I  ain't  green.  But  I 
don't  think  he  likes  me.  He  thinks  I'm  foxy,  he  !  he  !  Well, 
the  raisins  is  done.  Shan't  I  put  'em  in  the  cupboard — out  of 
the  flies  ?" 

Cora  thought  the  dish  held  a  scanty  portion  after  they  were 
stoned,  and  that  they  dwindled  away  some.  But  she  told 
Judy  that  she  might  put  them  in  the  cupboard,  and  hurry  out, 
for  Sophy  must  want  her 

So  Judy  raised  the  dish  of  raisins  carefully,  carrying  her 
Shanghai  extremities  over  the  carpet,  at  what  might  be  called 
"  magnificent  distances,"  and  as  it  took  her  a  long  while  to 
reach  tlie  top  shelf,  "  out  of  the  ants,"  she,  of  course,  did 
not  reappear  soon  ;  and  when  she  did,  she  w^as  for  some 
time  silent,  owing  to  a  sudden  swelling  of  her  tonsils. 

But  while  Cora  and  Judy  are  busy  about  the  cake,  we  wil] 
follow  the  Colonel  on  his  ride.  It  was  a  morning  made  for  the 
exercise  ;  the  air  was  clear  aiid  sunny,  and  the  country  fresh, 


172  Isoka's    Child. 

green  and  beautiful.  As  he  passed  the  grounds  of  the  Park, 
the  remembrance  of  liis  wrongs,  as  he  esteemed  them,  came 
through  his  mind,  and  embittered  his  feelings,  while  he  looked 
with  a  yearning  spirit  towards  the  home  of  his  boyhood.  He 
also  thought  of  Cora's  meeting  with  the  son  of  Wilton  ;  and 
feared  that  the  intercourse  might  ripen  into  dangerous  inti- 
macy, and  resolved  to  restrict  her  rambling.  So  his  thoughts 
ran,  while  his  horse  cantered  pleasantly  onward,  only  manifest- 
ing a  fancy  for  shying  when  startled  by  a  view  of  any  unusual 
object.  As  the  Colonel  was  anxious  to  give  his  new  horse  a 
fair  trial,  he  turned  into  a  sequestered  path,  off  from  the  main 
road,  where  he  thought  he  could  accustom  him  to  the  bit  and 
saddle,  which  was  new  to  him.  Rufus  Wilton  had  left  his 
home  for  the  same  agreeable  exercise,  and  sought  the  same 
path,  in  the  rear  of  the  Colonel,  To  each  other  they  were 
strangers,  having  never  met  since  the  latter  had  grown  to 
manhood.  His  walk  with  Cora  had  filled  his  head  with 
anxiety  again  to  meet  her,  and  he  had  been  out  early,  gunning, 
hoping  to  see  her  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood.  But  Judy 
was  the  nearest  resemblance  to  her  that  he  met  about  the  pre- 
mises, and  she  seeming  to  him  to  be  precariously  situated,  with 
one  leg  on  the  fence,  and  the  other  in  the  swinging  chain,  he 
feared  some  impending  catastrophe  ;  but  while  he  looked 
anxiously  over  the  fence  for  Cora,  and  on  it  and  the  chain  at 
Judy,  the  latter  nodded  to  him  so  familiarly,  he  was  forced  to 
reciprocate  the  civility.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  uninvited 
visit  Yillacora  ;  and  that  the  existing  coolness  between  their 
parents  made  it  awkward  to  do  so,  not  that  the  quarrels  of 
the  "old  folks"  were  of  any  more  consequence  to  him,  other- 
wise than  the  undying  controversy  and  colloquy  that  seemed 
ever  to  exist  between  the  dog  at  the  Park,  and  the  lordly 
feeling  Frisk,  who  always  seemed  to  bark  for  the  honor  of  the 
family. 

The  Colonel  had  penetrated  the  woods  through  a  narrow 
opening,  where  he  found  shade  and  a  bridle-path,  and  oppor- 
tunity to  exercise  his  gay  mettled  steed,  without  any  fear  of 
his  taking  fright.  Rufus  Wilton  rode  more  leisurely,  some- 
times looking  at  the  stately  figure  in  advance  of  him,  and  then 
at  the  antic  movements  of  the  horse  he  rode,  quietly  revolving 
i.n  his  mind  a  comparison  between  the  two,  which  by  no  means 
seemed  harmonious  in  his  estimation.  Then  a  black  and  white 
leathered  bob-o-link  over  his  head  wo'-J  ^  attract  his  attention, 


IsoKA^s    Child.  173 

mnsicaljy  flew  to  his  nest  in  the  boughs  beneath  which  he  rode, 
while  blue-birds  twittered  noisily,  and  the  woodpecker  kept  up 
his  hammering  near  by.  He  was,  liowever,  more  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts,  than  with  feats  of  horseman-hip  or 
with  nature's  beauties.  He  had  given  free  rein  to  his  fancy, 
wliich  carried  him  into  depths  more  profound  than  the  forests  of 
a  wilderness — into  the  wilder,  more  mysterious  paths  of  a  Uto- 
pian world — under  the  exhilarating  inlluence  of  his  exercise, 
and  the  remembrance  of  his  last  interview  with  Cora  on  his 
memory.  It  is  true  that  there  was  beauty  in  the  foliage  before 
unseen,  sweeter  melody  in  the  music  of  the  morning  birds,  new 
glory  in  the  sky's  blue  depths  that  imaged  his  boundless  hopes  ; 
still  a  paradise  of  dreamy  delight  dwelt  more  richly  on  his 
imagination,  than  Eden  untenanted  by  woman  could  have  pre- 
sented. He  was  in  a  brighter  sphere  than  poet  e'er  pictured,' 
sunnier  than  painter  e'er  pencilled,  more  flowery  than  Cash- 
mere's rosiest  vale — for  he  had  entered  the  portals  of  beautiful 
dream-land. 

He  was  soon  startled  from  his  musings  by  the  rapid  flight  of 
the  animal  ahead  of  him  ;  and  being  fond  of  gay  horses  himself, 
was  somewhat  excited  by  the  view,  wishing  that  he  had  the 
fractious  beast  under  his  own  management.  He  saw  that  the 
equestrian  was  unequal  to  the  task,  and  involuntarily  spurred 
Charlie  on  to  the  pursuit.  He  had  seen  a  cow  jum[)  from  a 
thicket  as  the  rider  passed  it,  and  from  the  accelerated  speed 
of  the  animal,  as  he  dashed  headlong  with  his  burden,  Wilton 
knew  that  the  gentleman  must  be  in  imminent  danger.  He 
therefore  pressed  forward,  hoping  at  least  to  render  him  assist- 
ance if  required.  He  knew  that  they  were  both  several  miles 
from  any  habitation,  and  that  perhaps  he  would  be  seriously 
hurt,  if  thrown.  He  had  not  proceeded  far  before  he  met  the 
frightened  steed,  with  his  saddle  hanging  loose,  his  ears  pricked 
up,  with  distended  nostrils,  running  at  full  speed  towards 
home. 

He  was  then  convinced  that  his  rider  had  been  thrown,  and 
went  rapidly  forward.  He  soon  found  the  fallen  man,  who 
lay  bleeding  and  senseless  upon  the  grass.  He  dismounted 
and  hastened  to  his  side.  He  thought  that,  though  stunned, 
there  was  yet  life  ;  and  dragging  him  to  a  mound,  he  put  under 
his  head  his  own  coat,  which  he  took  off  for  the  purpose. 
There  was  a  brook  near  by,  and  filling  his  hat  he  dashed  it 
over  the  face  of  the  fallen  man.     He  opened  a  vein  with  his 


174:  8  O  U  A  '  S      C  H  I  L  D  . 

peiikuife,  wliich  caused  the  sufferer  to  revive,  and  after  bind- 
ing up  his  arm,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  determined  to  go  for 
aid.  A  faint  "  God  bless  you  "  had  come  murmuringly  from 
the  lips  of  the  prostrate  Colonel,  who  again  closed  his  eyes 
mih  a  deep  groan. 

In  the  meanwhile  Cora  had  occupied  herself  busily,  hoping 
soon  to  see  her  father  return  ;  but  having  sent  Judy  several 
times  to  the  'gate  to  look  for  him,  and  she  having  as  often 
returned  with  an  account  of  seeing  nothing  but  "  boys  and 
other  critters,"  Cora  determined  if  he  did  not  soon  come,  that 
she  would  mount  Robin,  and  go  and  meet  him.  She  looked 
often  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  that  had  there  ticked 
since  she  was  an  infant — and  counted  the  minutes  of  his  pro- 
longed absence.  She  went  frequently  to  the  end  of  the  avenue, 
and  eagerly  looked  for  him,  as  far  as  her  eyes  could  peer 
through  ev^ry  vista  where  she  fancied  he  might  have  gone. 

As  she  despairingly  seated  herself  on  her  return,  at  the  door 
of  the  piazza,  with  her  head  drooping  in  thought,  Judy  came 
from  over  a  corn-field  like  a  wild  goose  on  the  wing,  screaming 
as  she  came  up  the  steps,  ^'  I  saw  something  coming  down  the 
lane  that  looked  like  a  hearse.  Miss  Cory,  only  the  horses 
trotted  faster.  It  can't  be  your  pa,  can  it  ?  I  thought  I  saw 
somethin'  white  followin'  it,  and  I  run  as  fast  as  I  could  click  it. 
Lord,  the  grass-hoppers  bites  this  time  a  year  !" 

Cora  was  not  alarmed  by  Judy's  superstitious  imaginative 
vision,  but  talking  of  hearses  did  her  no  good,  and  she  jumped 
from  her  seat,  and  went  to  the  stable  for  Robin,  and  then  to 
her  chamber  for  her  riding-dress,  while  Judy  constantly  talked 
of  the  hearse,  which  soon  had  a  procession  attached  to  it. 
Sophy,  who  had  by  this  time  heard  of  Cora's  alarm  from  the 
gardener,  told  Judy  to  "  hold  her  tongue,"  "that  to  be  sure  she 
had  dreamed  herself  of  broken  looking-glasses,  and  seen  the  ants 
make  funerals  in  the  cupboards  for  a  week,  but  there  was  no 
use  scaring  folks." 

Cora  was  soon  on  her  pony,  cantering  out  of  the  avenue, 
when  she  met  on  the  road  a  team  containing  some  movable 
furniture,  and  probably  Judy's  "hearse,"  in  the  shape  of 
an  old  piano  on  a  cart.  She  followed  the  path  which  she  pre- 
sumed her  father  had  taken,  her  face  growing  whiter  every 
instant.  She  had  not  proceeded  far  into  the  wood  before  she 
met  Rufus  Wilton — without  a  coat,  hurrying  towards  home. 
He    had    seen    something   fairy-like,    with   curls    floating   on 


I  s  o  R  a'  s    Child.  175 

the  breeze,  in  the  distance,  and  presumed  it  was  Cora,  and  now 
knew  that  it  was  her  father  that  he  had  left  on  the  grass. 
Terror  nearly  overwhelmed  her  when  she  met  Wilton.  He 
came  towards  her,  and  with  serious  earnestness  said,  while  he 
lifted  his  cap  :  "I  fear  that  your  father  is  hurt.  Miss  Cora," — 
but  as  he  observed  her  agitation,  added:  "  1  will  go  with  you 
to  him — and  then  for  a  physician  and  aid." 

Cora  did  not  faint,  as  he  had  feared  she  would,  but  with  a 
quivering  lip  and  tearful  eyes,  bowed  assent,  and  rode  by 
the  side  of  Wilton  to  the  spot  where  her  father  lay  nearly 
insensible. 

Without  a  word,  the  young  man  lifted  her  from  the  saddle, 
and  as  he  took  her  hand,  said  tenderly,  "  Don't  be  too  much 
alarmed — loss  of  blood  makes  him  pale — he  has  been  thrown, 
but  will  recover,  I  think,  soon."  Cora  now  burst  into  tears, 
and  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  her  father.  The  young 
man  bent  over  her  for  an  instant,  with  a  look  of  sympathy,  as 
he  said,  *'  I  hate  to  leave  you  here  ;"  then  raising  the  head  of 
the  Colonel  further  up  on  his  pillow,  without  another  word 
leaped  into  his  saddle  and  rode  rapidly  away. 

The  Colonel  seemed  to  know  that  Cora  was  beside  him, 
thouuh  he  did  not  speak.  She  held  his  hand,  and  with  her 
handkerchief  wiped  the  blood  from  his  forehead.  While  she 
remained  in  suffering  anxiety  with  her  injured  parent,  in 
the  wood,  Wilton  had  procured  a  physician,  and  a  litter  on 
which  to  bear  him  homeward.  With  assistance,  he  lifted  the 
Colonel  onto  the  cot,  when  he  was  slowly  borne  to  his  cottage, 
ignorant  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  the  timely  aid  rendered. 

Wilton  then  returned  to  Cora.  ''  Will  you  ride  now  ?"  said 
he,  "I  wish  this  path  was  wide  enough  for  a  carriage, 
that  you  might  have  returned  with  less  fatigue."  The  party 
had  preceded  them,  and  Cora  saw  that  she  could  only  follow 
slov/ly  in  the  rear.  It  reminded  her  of  a  funeral,  and  having 
been  so  long  suffering  from  agitation,  she  now  trembled  violently, 
and  tottered  as  she  rose  to  seek  her  pony. 

"  You  will  feel  better  when  mounted,"  said  Wilton,  as  she 
leaned  upon  his  arm.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  pale  face, 
and  seemed  to  read  into  the  depths  of  hers,  as  he  added, 
"God  knows  I  feel  for  you." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  replied,  "  and  1  show  little 
fortitude.  Now  give  me  your  hand,  and  I  will  ride."  Her 
little  foot  touched  the  palm  of  the  young  man's  hand,  wheu. 


176  Isora's    Child. 

with  a  light  spring,  she  was  seated.  Wilton  having  arranged 
her  riding  skirt,  and  having  put  the  reins  in  her  hand,  mounted 
his  own  horse,  and  they  proceeded  onward  together.  He  pur- 
posely lingered  that  the  litter  might  not  be  constantly  in  view, 
and,  with  silent  sympathy,  watched  Cora,  as  she  tried  to  be 
calm,  and  to  nerve  herself  for  the  worst.  In  that  hour  of 
sorrow  to  Cora,  Rufus  Wilton  had  involuntarily  betrayed 
much  feeling,  and  though  the  tongues  of  each  had  been  for 
the  most  time  silent,  much  sympathy  had  been  revealed  in 
love's  more  expressive  language. 

The  murmuring  of  leaves,  and  summer's  soft  breath  had  had 
their  tranquilizing  power,  and  Cora  grew  co'mposed  and  hope- 
ful. He  left  her  at  the  gate  of  the  avenue,  where  many  faces 
greeted  her,  drawn  by  curiosity  as  much  as  friendship  to  the 
scene. 

As  the  Colonel  was  carried  to  his  room,  Judy  blubbered 
audibly,  though  consoled  in  private,  on  the  affliction  that  had 
befallen  the  family,  in  the  thought  that  she  should  escape  his 
eyes  on  her,  when  she  set  the  dishes  crooked  on  the  table,  and 
did  other  little  things  that  "  warn't  gentlemen's  business  to  sec 
to."  On  the  whole,  she  thought,  if  it  would  be  more  lonely 
down  stairs,  that  it  would  be  quite  as  free  and  easy. 

Days  of  intense  anxiety  were  passed  by  Cora  at  her  father's 
bedside,  while  his  life  was  often  despaired  of.  He  was  for 
many  days  delirious,  and  his  situation  critical,  during  which  time 
Cora  hung  on  his  unconseioiis  words,  fearing  that  each  moment 
would  be  his  last.  She  grew  thin  and  pale  by  his  couch  of 
suffering,  and  allowed  no  one  but  herself  to  administer  to  his 
wants.  While  alone  with  him,  during  his  unconscious  hours, 
and  thinking  how  desolate  she  would  be  if  deprived  of  her 
only  parent,  she  would  weep  in  bitter  anguish  ;  and  when  she 
prayed  for  his  recovery,  if  it  was  the  will  of  God  to  spare  him 
to  her,  she  then  resolved,  and  vowed  in  her  own  heart,  to 
devote  herself  to  him  the  remainder  of  her  days,  while  no 
sacrifice  that  she  could  make,  should  be  too  great  for  his  hap- 
piness. While  he  lay  so  pale  and  ill,  and  death  seemed  hover- 
ing near,  she  felt  that  she  had  done  little  for  him,  and  that  he 
had  been  all  the  world  to  her.  Cora  had  led  a  joyous  happy 
life  thus  far,  but  no  enjoyments  had  been  entirely  satisfying. 
Her  pets,  her  flowers,  her  books  and  music,  had  engrossed 
her,  but  always  with  vague  aspirations  after  higher  ends,  such 
as  should  give  some  aim  to  her  life,  and  peace   to  a  sensitive 


I  S  O  R  a'  S      C  H  I  L  D  17'. 

conscience.  There  were  times  when  she  looked  with  earnest 
eyes  towards  Heaven.  She  sought  for  comfort  in  lier  Bible, 
and  at  night  when  she  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow,  and  when 
the  early  birds  were  singing,  her  praise  went  up  with  the 
warbling  of  the  little  choristers  that  seemed  thus  to  bless 
their  great  Creator.  The  world  had  been  to  her  yet  so  bright 
and  beautiful,  and  her  heart  so  joyous,  that  she  could  not 
realize  that  life  could  be  ever  clouded,  and  looked  upon  the 
simile  .that  called  this  world  a  "  vale  of  tears,"  as  but  a  poeti- 
cal fancy.  But  now  she  had  had  her  first  bitter  trial,  and 
grief  and  anxiety  bore  heavily  upon  her.  The  news  was 
finally  communicated  to  her  of  her  father's  freedom  from 
danger.  She  wept  with  joy  at  the  intelligence,  and  while  she 
thanked  God,  his  preserver,  she  invoked  His  blesshig  on  him 
who  had  been  instrumental  in  saving  his  life.  In  feeble  accents 
the  invalid  talked  to  her  again  with  consciousness,  and  made 
many  inquiries  relative  to  his  accident.  He  remembered 
nothing  but  his  horse's  fright  and  his  impending  danger, 
though  he  had  some  faint  recollection  of  receiving  assistance 
from  some  one.  He  told  Cora  that  he  felt  much  indebted  to 
the  person,  and  wished  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  see  him,  to 
acknowledge  personally  his  kindness.  Cora  did  not  then  dare 
to  tell  her  father  who  the  individual  was,  lest  the  information 
should  unpleasantly  excite  him  ;  but  thought  that  if  he  intro- 
duced himself,  his  prejudice  against  him  would  be  dissipated. 
So  when  her  father  again  mentioned  the  subject,  Cora  dis 
patched  a  note,  requesting  Mr.  Wilton,  Jr.  to  call  on  hei 
father. 

Wilton  soon  after  received  the  lines  of  Cora  with  dubious 
satisfaction.  He  felt  the  embarrassment  of  calling  on  the 
Colonel  under  existing  circumstances,  but  as  affording  him  a 
chance  of  meeting  his  daughter,  the  matter  seemed  worth 
consideration.  He  thought  over  the  invitation,  and  though  ho 
considered  the  grateful  acknowledgments  which  he  was  sum- 
moned to  receive  a  superfluous  ceremony,  still  the  sick  charabei 
might  prove  the  vestibule  to  Cora's  boudoir.  So  he  resolved 
to  go  at  once  to  Yillacora,  and  Judy  had  at  last  the  satisfac- 
tion of  admitting  the  young  man  that  she  had  scraped 
acquaintance  with  by  the  gate.  She  took  three  strides  down 
the  staircase  when  she  saw  him  coming  (and  there  was  little 
out  of  doors,  or  in,  that  she  didn't  see),  and  asked  him  to  waik 
in,   while  she  called  her  youns;  mistress.     She  looked    back 

8* 


178  Isoka's    Child. 

again  to  see  the  "heap  o'  hair,  and  qneer  big  eyes,"  that  at 
first  attracted  her,  and  then  strutted  herself  back  uncon- 
sciously, to  see  if  she  could  carry  her  head  and  shoulders  as 
he  did.  She  liked  him,  for  some  reason,  a  great  deal  better 
than  the  "  city  man,"  as  she  called  Mr.  Clarendon.  She  was 
always  a  little  afraid  of  the  Colonel,  so  she  whispered  to  Cora 
to  come  down  stairs  and  see  somebody.  She  gave  a  sly  wink 
as  she  spoke.  Cora  was  not  surprised  to  find  Mr.  Wilton 
there,  and  greeted  him  with  fluttering  emotion.  Weariness 
and  watching  had  weakened  her  nerves,  and  the  pleasure  and 
embarrassment  connected  with  his  visit  caused  her  pale  cheek 
to  flush,  and  her  lip  to  grow  tremulous  as  she  addressed  him. 
He  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  change  in  her  appearance,  and 
though  she  looked  to  him  bewitchingly  attractive,  her  paleness 
and  languor  affected  him  painfully.  It  seemed  to  him  a  cruel 
thing  that  she  should  fade  away  from  confinement.  So  Rufus 
thought  when  he  looked  upon  Cora's  lily  face,  though  he  did 
not  tell  her  of  his  sympathy,  but  briefly  questioned  her  respect- 
ing her  health. 

"  I  am  not  quite  well,"  Cora  answered  ;  and,  wicked  as  the 
thought  was,  Rufus  queried  whether  it  had  not  been  better 
that  the  old  Colonel  should  have  died  at  once,  than  to  have 
brought  so  much  weariness  and  watching  upon  her,  for  he  felt 
sure  that  she  would  not  need  a  protector,  if  he  lived  to  guard 
her  young  life.  The  parlor  where  they  sat  was  very  fragrant, 
for  Judy  liked  to  pick  flowers,  and  as  Miss  Cora  had  been  busy, 
she  had  filled  all  the  vases,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  odors 
which  both  seemed  to  appreciate,  as  they  leaned  together  over 
a  glass  of  fresh  roses  and  mignonnette. 

Cora's  cheek  had  now  stolen  a  blush  from  the  Mntest-hued 
leaf — a  color  soft  as  the  pink  of  an  ocean  shell — while  she  felt 
resting  upon  her  face  the  eyes  that  told  more  admiration  than 
a  world  of  courtly  tongues  could  have  expressed — her  own, 
meanwhile,  busy  seemingly,  as  her  fingers,  with  the  little  green 
sprig  she  held.  He  did  not  ask  for  her  father — he  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  his  existence — but  laid  back  his  head  of  chest- 
nut curls,  and  glanced  about  Cora's  home,  and  lastly  and 
earnestly  upon  her  sweet  self,  with  an  expression  that  spoke  of 
entire  happiness.  He  had  much  to  say  to  her — much  that  seemed 
important — yet  he  did  little  but  listen  to  the  gentle  girl,  who 
told  him  how  she  longed  for  the  fresh  air,  and  her  old  rambles, 
while  he  heard  more  her  tones  than  her  words.     But  there 


Isora's    Child.  179 

were  beautiful  books  to  look  at  together,  and  pictures  of  en- 
grossing interest,  and  the  comparison  to  be  made  between  the 
okl  Lady  Livingston's  portrait  and  Cora's  young  face.  Then 
Wilton  was  drawn  into  a  dissertation  on  the  rare  old  paintings 
that  he  saw  in  Italy,  all  fading  in  his  mind  as  he  looked  upon 
the  young  face  before  him. 

"  When  are  you  coming  out  again  ?"  he  questioned.  "  Even 
the  birds  miss  you.  Miss  Cora.  I  can  find  another  and  sweeter 
path  than  the  one  we  took  through  the  wood,  when  you  fes- 
tooned vour  dress  so  fantastically  with  burs.  Were  you  home 
late  ?"  " 

"  Oh  !  very.  Papa  doesn't  like  to  have  me  so  adventurous. 
He  thinks,  too" — Cora  now  colored  to  her  temples — "  that  I 
am  not  sufficiently  ceremonious  in  making  acquaintances." 

''Why — who,  pray — should  have  introduced  us? — a  bobo- 
link or  a  squirrel  ?  It  was  as  natural  for  us  to  become  ac- 
quainted as  for  water  to  find  its  level.  I  may  flatter  myself 
too  much,  but  I  consider  it  a  special  Providence  that  we  should 
have  met,  and  that  the  interview  had  nothing  to  do  with  that 
little  robin  that  would  have  left  a  helpless  family  but  for  your 
compassion.  Elderly  people,"  he  continued,  ''have,  some- 
times, strange  notions  ;  but  if  your  father  would  like  the  intro- 
duction more  formally  made,  it  shall  be  done — only  come  to 
the  same  leafy  bower  for  the  occasion." 

Wilton  leaned  forward  in  his  own  frank,  half-familiar  way, 
and  with  his  fascinating  smile,  archly  asked  for  Cora's  acquies- 
cence in  his  proposal. 

"  Papa  is  so  punctilious  I"  was  her  reply,  while  she  failed  to 
tell  him  that  that  was  not  all  the  reason  why  he  did  not  like 
her  to  take  long  rambles. 

*'  Do  you  think,"  said  he,  half-laughing,  "  that  in  that 
thunder-shower,  when  you  was  promenading  with  a  gentleman 
.who  does  not  seem  to  be  very  weather-wise,  on  some  occasions, 
that  I  should  have  sent  you  my  card  before  presuming  to  ofi'er 
you  assistance  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  did  you  get  home  ?"  said  Cora,  earnestly. 

"  Well  enough.  But  my  clothes  haven't  dried  since.  I 
had  a  fair  trial  of  the  Hydropathic  practice  that  night." 

*' But  where  did  you  procure  the  umbrella?"  questioned 
Cora.     "You  had  none  when  we  met  you  at  first." 

"  No.  But  while  you  were  romancing,  I  was  looking  at  the 
clouds,  and  makuig  provision  for  you  ;    but  little   thanks   I 


ISO  Isoka's    Child. 

received  from  the  gentleman.  I  did  not  come  for  tliem  ;  and 
strange  as  he  may  think  it,  I  did  not  think  of  him  when  I  pro- 
cured it." 

"  You  were  very  o^ood,"  said  Cora,  smilimr,  with  enp^ao-ino; 
sweetness. 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  me  more  opportunity  to  be  very 
good,  Miss  Cora,  but  without  suffering  to  yourself.  It  is, 
indeed,  too  selfish  a  matter  to  aid  you,  to  require  thanks." 

Wilton's  manner  was  playful,  but  there  was  an  under  cur- 
rent of  feeling  discernible  to  Cora. 

"  Papa  wants  to  thank  you,"  said  she. 

"  Can't  he  do  it  through  his  daughter  ?"  said  Wilton,  "  I 
am  a  little  awkward  on  such  occasions,  and  feel  altogether 
foolish  in  accepting  any  acknowledgments  at  all  for  a  service 
that  humanity  made  necessary.  Indeed,  Miss  Cora,  I  had  my 
private  reasons,  with  all  possible  respect  for  your  father,  in 
calling  here  to-day  ;  and  I  am  more  than  repaid  for  anything  I 
could  have  done  already.  Don't  drive  me  into  an  embarrass- 
ing position.  Tell  your  father  that  you  thanked  me,  and  I 
said  all  appropriate  things,  and  then,  you  know,  I  shall  not 
lose  one  of  the  moments  that  I  prize  more  than  the  gratitude 
of  a  nation." 

As  Wilton  spoke,  his  brilliant  eyes  beamed  with  a  softer 
light  than  Cora  had  ever  seen  in  them.  Plis  tone  and  manner 
betrayed  his  reluctance  to  leave  her.  At  his  request,  Cora 
rose  and  went  to  the  piano,  but  her  song  was  tremulous,  and 
her  fingers  idly  performed  their  task  ;  conscious  of  this,  Cora 
invited  Wilton  to  go  with  her  for  some  grapes  for  her  father. 
After  procuring  a  basket,  they  went  into  the  conservatory, 
where  the  clusters  of  purple  fruit  hung  in  tempting  richness. 
Here  Wilton  made  himself  useful,  and  asked  Cora  if  she  did 
not  think  him  ''very  good,"  a  commendation  which  he  felt 
much  inclined  to  laugh  at  her  for.  He  found  no  difficulty  iu 
reaching  the  largest,  most  luscious  bunches,  which  Cora  heaped 
up  with  care  for  the  invalid,  while  the  time  rapidly  passed, 
enlivened  by  the  chat  and  good  humor  of  the  Colonel's  visitor 
After  the  grapes  were  all  culled,  and  Wilton  had  plucked 
some  of  the  sweetest  and  richest  for  Cora,  they  then  wandered 
among  the  flower-beds,  where  each  bright  blossom,  in  emble- 
matical phrase,  furnished  a  tale  of  love  for  her  ear.  But  the 
winged  moments  flew  on  leaden  pinions  to  the  lonely  parent, 
who  had  ascertained  from  .Judy  the  arrival  of  a  gentleman. 


Child.  181 

whom  be  presumed  to  be  the  one  who  had  aided  him  iii  the 
wood.  He  therefore  sent  a  message  into  the  garden  to  Cora, 
to  bring  him  to  his  chamber.  - 

With  a  comical  sigh  Wilton  received  the  summons,  while  he 
looked  imploringly  at  Cora  ;  but  she  told  him  that  her  father 
was  expecting  him,  and  hoped  he  would  go  up  to  see 
liim. 

The  Colonel,  not  knowing  him,  was  somewhat  embarrassed 
upon  the  entrance  of  young  Wilton  ;  and  as  Cora  did  not 
|)ronounce  his  name  very  audibly,  he  was  long  puzzled  with 
the  sight  of  a  face  and  form  which  seemed  to  haunt  his  recol- 
lection. After  the  salutation  of  the  Colonel,  Wilton  seated 
himself  at  a  distance  from  the  bed  ;  where,  after  receiving  the 
coldly  expressed  thanks  of  the  former,  for  the  service  he  had 
rendered  him,  he  bowed — not  stiffly,  for  that  he  could  not  do, 
but  in  a  manner  that  seemed  to  say,  "  You  are  performing  a 
very  idle  ceremony,  sir."  Wilton  then  looked  at  the  bed-cur- 
tains, the  pictured  window-shades,  the  bottles  on  the  stand,  and 
lastly  on  the  somewhat  silvered  head  and  pale  face  that  so  scru- 
tiniziiigly  regarded  him.  They  then  conversed  on  indifferent 
topics  in  a  very  indifferent  manner  ;  but  each  moment  that  the 
Colonel  looked,  seemed  to  increase  his  interest  in  the  individual 
before  hira.  The  room  was  darkened,  and  the  features  of 
Wilton  were  somewhat  indistinct  on  the  vision  of  the  Colonel. 
i3ut  a  shutter  suddenly  unclosed,  when  they  were  fully  exhibited. 
The  blood  mounted  to  the  temples  of  the  sick  man.  Before 
hira  was  vividly  portrayed  a  resemblance  of  one  he  could  never 
through  life  forget— -the  once  brilliant  Rosa  Neville. 

The  air,  manner,  and  voice  seemed  also  to  bespeak  another. 
With  a  muttered  voice  he  said  : 

"  Did  I  understand  aright,  sir,  your  name  to  be  Wells  ?'' 

"  My  name  is  Wilton,"  said  the  young  man,  audibly,  while 
he  looked  full  in  the  face  of  the  Colonel. 

"  I  was  much  mistaken — yet  I  might  have  known  it." 

Wilton  observed  the  change  in  his  countenance,  and  the 
coolness  on  the  part  of  their  families  flashed  across  his  mind 
suddenly  and  un])leasantly — his  pride  was  touched  by  his  situa- 
tion— he  felt  instantly  unwelcome. 

Immediately  rising,  he  said,  "  You  may  regret  your  sum- 
mons, sir,  since  the  light  has  revealed  me."  Then,  with  a  car- 
riage a  trifle  more  erect  than  when  he  entered,  he  made  a  slight 
inclination  of  his  head,  and  took  his  hat  to  go. 


182  Isoea'sChild. 

The  Colonel  hemmed,  and  said,  coldly,  "  I  would  not  be  un- 
grateful, still,  sir," 

"  Excuse  me,"  interrupted  the  young  man  ;  while,  with 
hauteur  and  inaccessible  dignity,  he  awed  the  Colonel  into 
silence.  The  latter  instinctively  felt  that  his  visitor  was  not  one 
to  receive  ungracious  incivilities  or  words  of  heartless  import  ; 
and  as  he  looked  again  upon  the  retreating  figure  and  lofty 
bearing  of  one  to  whom  he  owed  so  much,  not  one  trace 
of  its  recent  sweetness  of  expression  lingered  in  his  face  ;  he 
was  now  more  like  his  father  than  the  mother  he  remembered 
so  well.  With  cool  civility  Rufus  Wiltou  left  the  presence  of 
the  Colonel,  and  entered  the  parlor  where  Cora  had  retreated 
after  the  inaudible  introduction  she  had  made  between  her 
father  and  his  visitor.  She  saw  instantly  the  mood  of  the  lat- 
ter was  changed. 

She  had  waited  for  his  coming,  and  with  some  solicitude 
watched  the  result  of  his  visit. 

"  How  did  papa  seem  to  you  V  said  Cora. 

"  I  think  he  will  recover  speedily,"  said  Wilton.  A  slight 
expression  of  offended  pride  was  observable  in  the  tone  in  which 
he  spoke. 

"  Are  you  sorry  you  went  to  see  him  V"  questioned  Cora, 
ingenuously. 

"  I  think  that  I  might  as  well  have  not  gone,"  replied  the 
young  man.     "  I  ought  to  have  remembered  his  prejudices." 

"  Were  they  exhibited  on  this  occasion?"  said  Cora,  with 
evident  pain. 

"  Miss  Cora,  I  believe  I  possess  a  sad  temper — too  much 
sensitiveness,  perhaps,  on  some  occasions.  It  was  evident  to 
me  that  when  my  name  was  understood,  that  I  was  not  a  wel- 
come visitor  to  your  father.  I  could  not  be  an  intruder.  You 
see  my  position  ;  therefore,  I  am  also  forced  to  say,  good  bye 
to  you — now.  May  this  state  of  things  not  always  exist  I" 
Wilton's  expression  did  not  change,  but  he  pressed  Cora's  hand 
fervently  in  both  his  own,  as  he  bade  her  adieu. 

Cora  looked  grieved.  Rufus  Wilton  observed  it,  and  for  a 
moment  her  fingers  were  raised  to  his  lips  ;  the  next,  he  had 
left  the  cottage. 

Cora  returned  sadly  to  her  father's  room.  She  found  him 
awake,  and  somewhat  excited.  He  called  his  daughter  to  come 
and  sit  beside  him.  She  obeyed,  and  discovered  that  his  fever 
had  risen  sensibly  since  she  had  left  him. 


I  s  o  K  .V '  s    Child.  183 

"  I  suppose  ^Ir.  Wilton  is  gone,"  said  he.  "  I  am  shocked 
to  find  that  he  was  the  geutlemaa  who  aided  me  when  I 
fell." 

"  Why  shocked,  papa  ?" 

**  How  little  you  know,  child,  of  the  state  of  things  that 
render  such  an  obligation  unpleasant." 

"  Is  it  not  better  to  forgive,  as  we  hope  to  be  forgiven  ?" 

"We  are  not  bound  to  forgive  Satan  himself." 

"Oh,  dear  papa  !" 

"  Would  you  have  me  make  friends  with  a  wolf  that  had 
eaten  my  child  ?  I  don't  know  this  young  Wilton.  He  treated 
my  civilities  with  haughtiness — insolence — Cora." 

"  It  does  not  seem  like  him  to  do  so,"  said  Cora,  mildly. 

"  It  is  very  much  like  him,  if  he  is  a  Wilton.  His  bearing 
was  like  a  lord,  when  he  fancied  himself  unwelcome." 

"  You  sent  for  him,  dear  papa." 

"  I  never  sent  for  a  Wilton,  Cora." 

"  Still,  papa,  he  is  the  one  who  almost  saved  your  life.  Icaii 
never  forget  how  kind  he  was  to  you.  He  ought  not  to  have 
left  here  pained  and  slighted." 

"  Slighted  !  Cora.  You  cannot  slight  such  a  man  as  that. 
You  can  only  meet  him  on  equal  ground.  That  is  why  I  feel 
it — he  has  the  advantage  of  me.  His  pride  I  cannot  break — 
I  see  that  in  his  eye — but  the  time  will  come  when  no  Wilton 
shall  own  a  foot  of  my  father's  premises." 

"  Oh  !  papa,  do  not  think  so  much  of  wealth.  Could  I  only 
see  your  spirit  softened,  your  pride  quelled,  it  would  be  worth 
more  to  me  than  expectations  of  future  inheritance." 

"  You  are,  as  Byron  says,  Cora, — 

*  A  precious  judge — shook  by  a  sigh, 
And  melted  by  a  tear.' 

Darken  the  room,  my  daughter,  and  I  will  go  to  sleep." 

Cora  kissed  her  father,  and  closed  the  shutters,  then  retreated 
to  a  small  recess  by  a  window  which  commanded  a  view  of  the 
flower  garden. 

The  yellow  beams  of  an  October  sun  shone  through  the 
lattice.  She  looked  at  the  brown  and  crimson  leaves  as  they 
fell  noiselessly  to  the  earth,  and  thought  how  short  the  time 
had  been  since  she  had  loved  to  rustle  them  along,  and  watch 
the  little  whirlwinds  that  carried  them  circling  around. 


184:  Isoka's    Child. 

The  atmosphere  was  mild  and  hazy,  such  a  delicious  day  as 
autumn  only  affords,  tranquil  aud  soft  as  Eve  might  have 
enjoyed  in  golden  Eden. 

The  most  gorgeous  flowers  were  blooming,  though  they  lent 
little  perfume  to  the  air.  Cora  looked  admiringly  upon  the  rows 
of  brilliant  dahlias  and  gay  artemisias,  from  the  most  superb 
orange  to  every  hue  of  red  and  purple.  Fading  flowers  were 
also  lying  about,  drooping  from  their  crumbling  stalks,  their 
seeds  dropping  plentifully,  making  Cora  think  of  old  Goody, 
and  wondering  if  she  had  gathered  in  her  harvest  of  flower 
seeds,  and  she  wished  that  she  had  time  to  collect  some  for  her. 
Then  her  eye  rested  on  the  blended  hues  of  the  maple-grove, 
and  from  thence  to  the  scarlet  berries  of  the  sumach,  now  bril- 
liant as  the  pomegranate  in  its  prime,  as  they  hung  like  clusters 
of  coral  from  their  still  green  branches.  It  was  a  long  time 
since  Cora  had  been  much  in  the  open  air,  and  her  health  had 
suffered  from  the  confinement.  Like  many  fond  parents, 
Colonel  Livingston  was  a  selfish  one.  He  was  unhappy  unless 
his  idol  was  ever  in  sight,  forgetting  that  her  delicate  frame  re- 
quired its  usual  invigorating  exercise,  and  she  was  so  self-sacri- 
ficing that  to  her  own  health  she  was  indifferent,  while  she 
could  make  her  father  comfortable  and  happy.  The  Colonel 
roused  from  a  short  nap,  and  missed  his  daughter,  and  re- 
proached her  for  leaving  him.  He  was  in  an  irritable  mood,  and 
dissatisfied  with  everything.  Cora  tried  to  indulge  his  whims, 
and  in  her  serene  patience,  like  one  of  earth's  angels,  ministered 
to  each  want. 

Sophy  had  made  his  gruel  too  salt,  and  Judy,  he  said, 
"made  such  a  constant  noise,  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
sleep  since  morning."  This  Cora  did  not  deny,  although  she  had 
sent  her  out  of  the  house  after  Mr.  Wilton  left,  lest  she  should 
disturb  her  father.  Still  it  was  Judy  who  was  in  fault,  who, 
with  all  her  misdemeanors,  was  not  always  as  guilty  as  she 
was  esteemed.  Cora  knew  her  father  to  be  a  disappointed,  and 
now  a  suffering  man,  and  unweariedly  endeavored  to  calm  his 
turbulence  of  feeling.  She  finally,  by  singing  his  favorite  songs, 
lulled  him  into  a  calm  slumber,  and  feeling  languid  and  sad, 
from  various  causes,  sunk  beside  his  pillow,  and  soon  fell  asleep. 
By  the  haggard  face  of  the  invalid  lay  the  head  of  the  youth- 
ful w^atcher,  buried  in  its  waves  of  gold — a  careless  and  beau- 
tiful picture.  Her  countenance  was  calm  and  peaceful,  though 
looking  a  little  flushed  and  wearied.    Sleep  gave  almost  infantile 


I  s  o  li  A '  s    Child.  185 

^race  to  her  attitude,  as,  with  one  arm  thrown  upward,  she 
breathed  lilve  a  tired  chikh  While  father  and  daughter  thus 
slept,  she  half  sitting,  half  reclining,  as  she  rested  on  his  pil- 
low, Mr.  Clarendon  arrived  at  Yillacora  on  a  visit  to  the 
Colonel,  to  whom  he  had  been  faithful  and  attentive  during  his 
illness. 

He  had  rarely  waited  for  admittance,  but  generally  came  to 
the  door  of  his  bedroom,  where  he  was  ever  a  welcome  visitor. 
He  now,  as  usual,  came  up  stairs,  and  finding  the  door  ajar, 
walked  lightly  in.  The  situation  of  Cora  and  her  father  star- 
tled Mr.  Clarendon,  who  at  first  retreated,  but  observing  their 
slumber  sound,  was  tempted  to  approach  the  fair  sleeper.  He 
came  nearer — she  did  not  stir — the  Colonel  breathed  heavily. 
The  visitor  raised  one  light  curl  from  her  cheek,  and  stood 
enchanted  with  her  loveliness.  Soon  a  smile  played  about  her 
mouth,  while  her  muslin  drapery  rose  and  fell  with  the  now 
hurried  breath  that  seemed  to  agitate  her  bosom.  Both  arms 
are  now  raised,  and  twined  above  her  head,  while  her  red, 
parted  lips  are  crimson  as  the  rose  she  wears  in  her  hair.  And 
this  fair  young  girl,  he  thought,  so  perfect  in  repose,  he  would 
make  his  wife.  As  he  stood  admiring  the  unconscious  Cora,  a 
sigh  escaped  her— then  came  a  low,  soft  whisper — he  bent  his 
ear — she  murmured  the  name  of  AYilton.  Mr.  Clarendon  turned 
and  went  belov/  stairs,  and  thence  into  the  parlor. 

He  was  not  a  believer  in  dreams,  generally,  but  his  own  ears 
had  not  deceived  him — Cora  had  breathed  a  stranger's  name — 
was  it  that  of  the  sportsman?  Soon  after  Cora  awoke  refreshed. 
She  had  had  sweet  visions  of  happiness,  and  so  young  a  heart 
needs  little  to  awaken  joy.  She  believed  that  her  father  would 
feel  differently,  when  he  recovered,  towards  her  young  friend. 
Judy  had  been  to  tell  her  of  Mr.  Clarendon's  arrival,  and  also 
of  his  "peeking  at  her,  when  she  was  asleep,"  which  Cora 
could  not  believe  ;  Judy  having  stood  all  the  time  in  the  door- 
way, behind  a  fire-screen. 

So  Cora  went  down  to  greet  him,  and  to  ask  him  up  stairs. 
But  Mr.  Clarendon  detained  her,  while  he  jestingly  alluded  to 
her  "talking  in  her  sleep,"  which  he  said  had  afforded 
him  much  amusement,  and  attracted  his  attention  into  her 
father's  room,  where  he  confessed  that  he  had  not  only  been, 
but  had  watched  her  a  full  hour.  "  Now,"  he  continued,  more 
jealous  than  he  liked  to  own,  "  you  had  better  make  a  full  con- 


186  Is  oka's    Child. 

fession  of  all  you  have  been  dreaming  about,  to  keep  me  from 
exposing  all  1  have  heard." 

Cora  was  teased,  and  somewhat  alarmed,  lest  in  her  sleep  she 
had  said  something  foolish,  and  was  really  vexed  that  their  visi- 
tor should  have  dared  to  intrude  at  such  a  moment,  while  she 
was  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

She  showed  her  annoyance  and  embarrassment  evidently, 
which  the  more  excited  Mr,  Clarendon  to  continue  to  rally  her, 
and  when  he  in  a  whisper  told  her  that  he  had  learned  the  name 
of  "the  sportsman"  from  her  own  lips  while  asleep,  Cora's 
face  crimsoned  deeply.  She  felt  that  the  tale  of  Clarendon  was 
now  true,  for  she  knew  that  while  she  w^as  slumbering  on 
her  father's  pillow,  that  in  dreaming  fancy  she  w^as  elsewhere, 
and  that  the  grapes  in  the  arbor  w^ere  not  yet  half  picked. 

In  vain  Cora  begged  Mr.  Clarendon  to  go  up  stairs  to 
her  father.  He  felt  that  he  had  now  some  clue  to  her  secret, 
and  he  wished  to  know  how  formidable  a  rival  he  had  to  com- 
bat, and  how  strong  a  hold  he  had  on  the  heart  of  Cora.  But 
when  she  told  him  that  Mr.  Wilton  had  just  called  on  her 
father,  and  that  he  was  instrumental  in  saving  the  Colonel's 
life,  he  w^as  seriously  alarmed,  and  more  than  ever  excited 
to  win  the  prize,  spurred  on  by  competition.  And  as  Cora  had 
been  unusually  kind  to  him  since  she  had  declined  receiving 
his  addresses,  he  had  at  least  as  free  and  uninterrupted  enjoy- 
ment of  her  society — now  that  she  felt  that  all  was  understood 
between  them. 

Still  his  aim  was  steady,  and  his  course  as  politic  as  if 
stronger  demonstration  evinced  his  preference.  He  was  more 
than'ever  in  the  society  of  the  Colonel  and  none  the  less  iu  the 
good  will  of  the  daughter. 


Isoka's    Child.  18T 


CHAPTER  XY. 

"  There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer, 
That  caused  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear." 

'i  T  OBSERYED,"  said  Mr.  Roger  Wilton  to  his  son,  ''that 

X  a  note  came  to  you  this  morning  from  Livingston's.  Pray 
wlrnt  can  be  the  matter?  Are  you  consulting  phvsician  in  his 
case  ?  Your  experiment  in  surgery  to-day  must  have  earned 
you  a  diploma.  It  was  a  thousand  pities  to  have  spilled  any 
of  his  blood.  He  must  have  deplored  it.  Pray  what  was  it 
made  of?" 

"  You  are  satirical,  and  I  am  unequal  to  a  tilt  with  you,  sir. 
I  am  contented  with  my  efforts,  and  have  had  no  reason  to 
regret  the  slight  service  I  rendered  an  injured  man." 

"  It  may,  perhaps,  be  questioned  whether  all  lives  are  worth 
saving." 

"There  is  little  time  to  inquire  into  a  man's  estimated  value 
with  his  neighbors,  when  his  life  is  at  stake  ;  and  if  the  huma- 
nity exercised  depended  on  their  favorable  opinion,  their  situa- 
tion might  be  somewhat  critical,"  replied  the  son,  coolly. 

"It  might  be  an  act  of  humanity  to  rid  the  world  of  some 
of  its  excrescences,  and  well,  also,  to  take  wider  views  of 
benevolence — to  think  of  general  as  well  as  individual  good.  In 
this  case,  you  did  infinite  service.  But  for  this  accident  your 
medical  skill  might  have  never  been  known  ;  but  I  trust  'that 
in  your  hot  pursuit,  you  did  not  founder  your  steed,  or  trample 
on  a  defenceless  goose  that  might  have  left  a  motherless  brood." 

"  I  believe,  sir,  that  I  did  to-day  more  good  than  evil  ;  at 
least,  I  meant  to." 

"  Disinterestedly,  of  course  !  Am  happy  to  hear  that  there 
is  some  prospect  of  grafting  some  of  the  Livingston  stock  on- 
to our  family  tree.  This  is  one  way  to  settle  a  lawsuit.  Am 
glad  to  hear,  too,  that  you  are  so  accommodating  to  my  lord'.s 
views.  But  are  you  sure  that  the  compromise  can  be  amicably 
settled  V 


188  Isora'sCiiild. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  said  tlie  young  man,  "  if  I  am  too 
fresh  to  understand  you.  Perhaps  I  may  yet  be  as  accom- 
plished an  intriguer  as  my  father  could  wish.  At  present,  I 
only  know  enough  to  be  governed  by  my  inclinations." 

Rufus  Wilton  despised  any  covert  insinuations  ;  his  own  dis- 
position was  open  and  frank,  and  sarcasm  and  ill-nature  annoyed 
him.  He  rose  to  leave  the  apartment,  but  the  entrance  of 
Uncle  Peter,  with  his  bi-oad,  good-humored  face,  prevented  him. 
The  latter  presented  an  entire  contrast  to  his  pale,  sarcastic 
brother. 

"  What's  in  the  wind  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  Quick  to  your  traps 
and  rigging,  Rufe.  We  are  all  going  to  the  Captain's  this 
evening." 

"  I  intended  reminding  you  of  the  engagement,"  said  the 
elder  Wilton  ;  "  and  it  would  gratify  me,  my  son,  to  see  you 
civil  to  his  daughter,  instead  of  wasting  your  time  on  a  girl  not 
worth  a  farthing." 

"  I  am  engaged,"  said  Rufus  Wilton,  shortly. 

"  I  trust  that  your  engagements  can  be  set  aside,  without 
affecting  the  interests  of  the  state.  A  good  day  for  a  bite  ? 
Are  you  on  the  scent  for  a  partridge,  or  some  flaxen  ringlets 
under  a  sun-bonnet?  I  should  think  a  young  man,  with  your 
education  and  foreign  culture  (here  Mr.  Wilton  sneered), 
would  look  a  little  to  money  in  a  wife,  as  well  as  to  the  curls 
you  can  find  on  any  poodle." 

"Which  poodle  ringlets  I  could  certainly  find  in  abundance 
at  neighbor  Sapp's,  My  engagements  are  my  own,  of  whatever 
nature  ;  and  I  consider  it  proper,  and  not  disrespectful,  to  say, 
that  if  you  and  Captain  Sapp  anticipate  any  connection  of  your 
pecuniary  interests  through  my  marriage  with  his  daughter, 
that  you  are  doomed  to  disappointment." 

*'  Rufe,"  said  Uncle  Peter,  "  you  are  rash,  ray  boy.  Take 
a  wife  as  coolly  as  you  would  procure  a  cat,  both  will  get 
wonted.  Come  with  us,  my  boy.  The  pups  ain't  all  at  home, 
some  have  gone  to  Cuby  for  their  health — what  haven't  died  in 
fits  ;  a  pretty  trick  you  served  me  last  summer,  what  between 
the  girl  and  the  dog  I  liked  to  have  had  a  fit  myself.  Look 
here,  young  man,  I  have  a  private  word  for  you."  Here 
Uncle  Peter  whispered  audibly.  "  I'll  court  her  a  leetle  for 
you,  though  I  do  see  more  sugar  casks  than  women." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Rufus,  his  good  humor  restored, 
'*  that  you  have  been  a  veteran  under   the  banner  of  Cupid. 


Isora's    Child  189 

I    grant    you    the    honor    you   have    tendered    me,    a    clear 
field." 

**  Let  hitn  off,  Roger,  I'll  take  care  of  the  lady — all  in  the 
family,  Rufe,"  Uncle  Peter  made  a  squint  which  he  meant 
to  be  quizzical,  but  being  naturally  cross-eyed,  gave  him 
the  appearance  of  going  into  an  epileptic  spasm. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Wilton,  senior,  "  the  affair  must 
be  got  through  with  or  without  the  young  gentleman." 

"  By  ginger  !"  said  Uncle  Peter,  picking  up  his  cane  and 
shell-bowed  specs,  **  West  India  trade  is  clear.  Hornets  and 
scorpions  !  how  her  eyes  snap,  like  hornbugs,  or  a  cat's  back 
a  dark  night  ;  but  them  pups — how  I  hate  'cm  I,  old  Sara's 
son-in-law,  rising  o'  fifty  !  but  who  knows  it  ?  Wasn't  raised 
in  these  parts — adopted  down-east,  where  codfish  grows. 
Firm  *  Wilton  and  Sapp,'  West  India  Merchants.  Curculios 
and  fireflies  !  A  bachelor's  life  is  a  mean  one  ;  'tain't  living, 
it  ain't  respectable." 

So  Uncle  Peter  ruminated  on  his  way  to  Captain  Sapp's, 
his  dignified  brother  following  in  the  rear.  Miss  Sally  was  in 
readiness  to  receive  them,  though  disappointed  at  the  absence 
of  the  junior  member  of  the  family.  The  gorgeousness  of  her 
dress  was  now  fated  to  alone  bedizen  the  eyes  of  the  admiring 
Uncle  Peter.  Even  her  retinue  of  negroes  were  dressed  in 
uniform,  with  yellow  kilts  and  bandanna  turbans,  each  with  a 
bunch  of  peacock  feathers  to  brandish  over  the  table,  now 
loaded  wdth  imported  delicacies  ;  but  as  others,  who  more 
awaken  our  interest,  have  no  share  in  the  feast,  we  will  leave 
the  supper  party. 

Rufus  Wilton  was  relieved  by  the  departure  of  his  father 
and  uncle,  and  hoped  his  decisive  remarks  would  close  all 
further  matrimonial  speculations  for  him.  The  season  was 
approaching  when  he  had  anticipated  passing  the  winter  in 
New  York,  but  his  present  passion  for  Cora  made  him  indiffe- 
rent to  aught  else.  He  wandered  over  the  grounds  of 
the  Park,  until  he  reached  the  monuments  under  the  wil- 
lows. 

As  he  sat  down  upon  a  tablet,  on  which  was  inscribed  the 
)iame  of  Livingston,  his  thoughts  wandered  to  his  mother's 
destiny.  She  came  before  his  imagination  young  and  beautiful ; 
for  so  had  she  been  pictured  to  hinj,  and  he  now  wondered  if 
he  should  ever  find  her  grave. 

He  took  from  his  waistcoat  a  small  box  of  wrought  silver, 


190  Isora's    Guild. 

inlaid  with  pearl,  which  he  had  recently  found  among  some 
neglected  rubbish.  It  contained  such  trifling  mementoes  of 
friendship  as  young  girls  sometimes  prize.  A  little  gold  heart 
rolled  in  cotton,  lay  in  one  corner  of  the  box,  suspended  from 
a  short  chain,  which,  from  its  lengtii,  he  imagined  she  might 
have  clasped  about  her  throat.  Trinkets  of  different  work- 
manship lay  beside  it  ;  but  what  was  of  most  interest  to  him 
was,  a  ring  set  with  a  brilliaut  diamond.  Upon  the  inner 
surface  of  the  ring  he  found  the  letters  e.  l.  and  r.  n.  en- 
graved. 

He  placed  this  upon  his  little  finger,  and  prized  it  as  a  relic 
of  inestimable  value.  He  believed  it  to  have  been  one  worn 
by  his  mother.  Among  these  treasures  was  a  long,  beautiful 
curl  of  chestnut  hair,  entwined  with  a  shorter  lock  of  a 
darker  hue.  The  latter  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  hair  of 
his  father,  and  he  was  confident  from  the  length  and  beauty 
of  the  former  tress,  that  it  came  from  the  head  of  his  mother. 
He  still  kept  these  relics  in  the  little  silver  box,  and  treasured 
them  as  above  price.  He  now  sat  long  on  the  tombstones, 
while  he  re-examined  them,  falling  meanwhile  in  a  deep 
reverie. 

The  last  of  October  had  approached.  It  was  the  Indian 
summer,  when  the  air  was  serene,  and  scarce  a  breath  lifted  a 
dying  leaf  from  the  tallest  tree-top,  while  the  sun  was  going 
down  a  blood  red  ball,  behind  its  misty  yellow  veil — an  atmos- 
phere peculiar  to  our  sky  in  autumn  when  the  forest  leaves  die, 
as  the  dolphin  yields  his  breath  in  his  brightest  hues.  The 
evening  was  so  soft,  Wilton  felt  its  influence,  and  he  was  long 
inclined  to  meditate  while  he  sat  on  the  stones  beneath  the 
willows.  He  here  resolved  that  at  no  distant  time  he  would 
demand  of  his  father  a  full  explanation  of  the  mystery  attend- 
ing his  mother's  fate,  also  sift  to  the  bottom  the  causes  of 
her  elopement  from  her  home.  It  was  an  agonizing  thought 
to  him,  that  she  might  be  suffering,  while  he  was  living 
in  comfort  and  affluence.  He  took  from  his  finger  the 
ring  which  he  had  found,  and  examined  again  the  initials. 
He  knew  many  who  bore  the  same.  He  thought  of  the  old 
walnut  desk,  in  his  father's  private  apartment,  always  so 
securely  locked.  He  remembered  that  he  once  saw  the  latter, 
when  he  deemed  himself  alone,  take  a  miniature  from  one  of 
its  drawers,  wipe  the  dust  from  the  ivory,  and  return  it  to  its 
hiding-place  without  emotion.     He  was  then  a  boy.     But  he 


1  S  O  E  A  ■  S      C  H  1  L  D  .  101 

had  since  seen  him  lock  the  secret  drawer  where  he  placed  it,  and 
fasten  the  desk  ;  then,  to  be  sure  of  the  safety  of  his  possessions, 
return  and  try  the  security  of  the  lock  that  guarded  them. 
Young  Wilton  thought  of  the  bearing  of  these  things  upon 
his  mother's  history  ;  but  had  any  individual  detracted,  to  his 
knowledge,  from  his  father's  honor,  he  would  have  quickly 
resented  the  affront.  The  doubt  that  harassed  his  mind 
respecting  the  honorable  course  of  his  parent  made  him  the 
more  jealous  of  his  reputation,  and  as  time  added  dignity  to 
his  stature  and  bearing,  rumors  which  came  to  the  ears  of  the 
boy,  were  silenced  in  presence  of  the  man.  He  deplored  the 
niefficacy  of  search,  such  as  he  had  privately  made,  having  not 
one  thread  on  which  to  guide  him  in  ascertaining  her  fate.  He 
had  little  knowledge  of  his  mother's  relations,  excepting  that 
her  family  had  come  from  Virginia,  and  that  she  had  a  brother 
in  India,  who  considered  him  now  his  protege,  and  his  future 
heir.  At  stated  periods,  he  had  received,  from  boyhood, 
liberal  sums  of  money  from  his  wealthy  bachelor  relative,  and 
he  hoped,  at  some  future  day,  to  see  him.  He  had  often 
written  him  respecting  his  mother,  but  had  never  received  any 
saLisfaotory  reply.  The  little  box  was,  therefore,  all  he  pos- 
sessed that  was  associated  with  her,  and  he  kept  it,  as  a 
talisman.  Gold  or  jewels  from  the  richest  diadem  could  not 
have  bought  it.  As  evening  came  on,  he  returned  to  the 
house,  where,  as  his  father  and  uncle  had  gone  out,  he  re- 
mained alone. 

Here  all  was  old-fashioned  splendor  and  comfort.  The 
furniture  was  anticjue,  and  richly  carved.  The  old  desk  was 
there,  which  for  years  he  had  longed  to  open.  The  cottage  of 
Yillacora  was  visible  from  the  windows,  in  the  distance.  He 
thought  of  Cora,  as  he  looked  forth  from  them,  and  marvelled 
that  a  being  once  loved  could  ever  become  an  object  of  indif- 
ference. But  his  father's  nature  had  been  always  a  mystery, 
and  his  characteristics  more  than  ever  puzzled  hira,  when  he 
thought  of  her  who  had  abandoned  him  so  early  in  their 
married  life,  in  the  spring-time  of  her  loveliness,  leaving  behind 
her  the  only  child,  and  that  an  infant. 


1  92  1  6  O  R  a'  S      C  lill.D 


CHAPTER    XYI 


The  bleak  wind  whistles — snow  showers  far  and  near, 

Drift  without  echo  to  the  whitening  ground  ; 
Autumn  hath  passed  away,  and  cold  and  drear. 

Winter  stalks  in,  with  frozen  mantle  bound. 

Mrs.  Norton. 

THE  autumnal  season  had  passed,  with  its  sunny  days  and 
mellow  influences.  The  bright  tinted  leaves  had  fallen, 
their  color  had  faded,  and  now  wore  the  dusky  hue  that  pre- 
cedes their  state  of  crumbling  decay,  and  were  being  scattered 
and  strewn  by  the  desolating  winds  of  winter,  which  already 
blew  through  the  naked  branches. 

The  birds  that  Cora  loved  had  deserted  their  leafless  homes 
for  a  more  genial  sky  ;  but  if  she  sighed  for  her  woodland 
favorites,  her  own  blithesome  song  was  no  less  merry  in  their 
aV)sence.  Her  father's  recovery  had  given  her  fresh  spirits, 
and  in  her  happy,  but  quiet  home,  she  found  amusement  enough 
to  wile  away  the  rainiest  or  most  gloomy  day.  She  loved 
winter — its  clear,  sunny  mornings,  when  through  the  frosted 
panes  she  could  look  out  upon  the  sparkling  snow,  or  diamond 
gemmed  branches  that  rattled  in  the  north  wind,  like  thou- 
sands of  jewels,  against  the  window-panes.  She  loved  the 
sound  of  the  sleigh-bells,  as  they  went  merrily  by  ;  and  at 
noonday  to  see  the  eaves  drip,  in  the  beaming  sunshine  that 
melted,  at  last,  the  rainbow-hued  icicles.  And  well,  too,  she 
loved  the  long  winter  evenings,  with  the  cheerful  hearth  blaze 
and  brilliantly  lighted  fireside  ;  when,  after  making  her  father 
comfortable  with  his  slippers,  his  arm-chair,  his  newspaper, 
and  specs,  she  sat  with  him  with  her  work  or  book,  sometimes 
at  his  side,  and  often,  like  a  child,  by  his  knee.  And  although 
Judy  had  been  ever  a  troublesome  comfort,  still  she  had 
become  attached  to  her,  and  she  liked  to  hear  her  merry  song 
aV>out    the    house,   and   to   see   her   black  eye.s  dunce   at  th^ 


"  Isora'sCiiild.  193 

prospect  of  any  new  amusement,  such  as  Cora  generously 
alibrded  her  in  the  way  of  cracking  hickory  nuts,  making 
molasses  candy  at  evening,  or  hanging  up  her  blue  stocking  at 
Christmas.  Cora  did  not  forget  that  Judy  was  still  but  a 
child,  and  loved  childish  things,  if  she  was  compelled  by 
poverty  to  go  out  so  early  to  service.  And  Cora  was  repaid 
for  her  thoughtfulness  of  Judy,  for  the  young  heart  that  beat 
with  joy  at  some  promised  amusement,  never  forgot  the  kind- 
ness of  her  young  mistress  ;  and  as  she  grew  older  she  mani- 
fested her  gratitude  in  many  pleasant  ways,  that  encouraged 
Cora  that  Judy  was  not  a  bad  child  after  all  her  pranks  and 
mischief. 

Wrapped  to  the  ears  in  furs,  Cora  traversed  the  frosty 
roads,  and  through  by-paths,  and  over  hedges,  either  for  the 
enjoyment  of  the  keen  air,  or  for  the  comfort  of  some  old  or 
young  body  that  she  had  taken  a  fancy  to  make  comfortable. 
And  then,  too,  the  neighbors  came  in  often  at  night  ;  and  no 
time  seemed  better  for  a  chat  than  after  she  had  returned  from 
her  walk,  her  spirits  exhilarated,  and  her  cheek  glowing  with 
exercise  and  the  winter's  cold. 

Old  Goody  had  grown  stiff,  since  December  came  in,  not- 
withstanding Cora's  poppy-rum,  which  one  of  the  neighbors 
showed  her  how  to  make  for  the  old  woman,  and  the  most  she 
could  do  was  to  tie  up  her  flower-seeds  for  the  next  spring, 
which  season  she  had  known  would  "  sartain  be  her  last"  for 
at  least  ten  years.  The  old  yellow  cat  didn't  mind  her  groan- 
ing, but  purred  away  at  her  feet  as  soothingly  as  in  her  more 
frolicking  kitten  days.  It  is  true  that,  notwithstanding  her 
peaceful  habits,  she  had  a  way  of  raising  her  back  when  Frisk 
came  in,  but  her  bump  of  self-esteem  being  seemingly  here 
located,  it  was  not  strange  that  she  made  some  demonstration 
of  her  consequence,  considering  that  Frisk  took  airs  upon 
himself  for  so  small  a  dog,  whatever  his  situation  in  life. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  more  than  ever  attentive  to  the  Colonel, 
while  his  visits  had  become  essential  to  his  happiness  ;  and 
Cora  sometimes  saw,  with  apprehension,  that  devotion  from 
the  same  source  to  herself  was  also  gratifying  to  him.  These 
visits  had  not  escaped  notice  either  in  town  or  country,  and 
Cora  was  pronounced  by  many  the  affianced  bride  of  their  visi- 
tor ;  but  it  had  been  a  long  time  since  Mr.  Clarendon  had  even 
distantly  approached  the  subject  of  love  or  marriage  to  Cora, 
though  he  spared  no  effort  to  win  her  favor. 

9 


194  Isoka's    Child. 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  cheering  her  father  during  his 
still  feeble  health,  and  was  blind  to  the  aim  that  prompted  the 
kindness.  Slie  saw  not  that  he  was  restless  and  dissatisfied 
during  his  evening  visits  at  the  cottage,  until  she  took  her  seat 
by  tlie  hearth,  and  her  plavfuhiess  cast  its  wonted  charm  over 
their  circle  ;  for  he  did  not  outwardly  betray  his  impatience. 
With  the  same  avidit};  he  sought  the  chess-board  for  a  game 
with  her  father  ;  and  though  he  never  omitted  the  kind  word, 
or  more  flattering  look,  to  herself,  the  Colonel  seemed  the  object 
of  his  visits. 

At  his  earnest  request,  Cora  occasionally  consented  to  take 
a  sleigh-ride  with  him  ;  and  never  did  Louis  Clarendon  enjoy 
more  pure  happiness  than  when,  after  sheltering  her  so  carefully 
beneath  the  robes  that  not  a  breath  of  cold  could  chill  her,  he 
took  under  the  wing  of  his  protection  the  delicate  being  that 
he  would  shield  through  life.  He  loved  to  watch  her  blue  eyes, 
lit  by  the  brilliancy  of  a  winter's  sun,  and  the  bloom  that  the 
frosty  air  brought  to  her  cheeks  and  lips.  The  arch  o*  heaven 
seemed  to  him  no  purer  than  the  radiance  of  the  first,  and  the 
golden  sunbeams  of  no  warmer  tint  than  the  hair  which  played 
on  the  cold  north  wind. 

Cora  protested  that  so  much  care  was  needless,  and  that  her 
feet  were  not  in  such  constant  danger  of  freezing,  though  she 
was  often  grateful  for  his  attention  to  little  Frisk,  who, kept 
losing  himself  in  snow-banks  ;  though  this  accommodating 
spirit,  manifested  by  taking  him  in  the  sleigh,  was  never  ex- 
hibited to  anything  less  human  than  Cora's  little  dog. 

One  beautiful  moonlight  night,  when  the  atmosphere  was  so 
very  still  and  cold,  that  not  a  breath  seemed  to  stir  the  trees 
that  sparkled  brilliantly — when  fairies  seemed  to  have  been  at 
work  making  crystal  kingdoms  of  pearl  and  silver,  and  every- 
where the  eye  was  enchanted  with  the  glittering  sheen — on 
such  a  night,  Mr.  Clarendon  invited  Cora  to  take  a  ride  Avith 
him.  She  at  first  declined  the  request,  for  her  father  had 
stirred  up  more  vigorously  the  bright  blazing  embers,  while 
with  a  "  whew  !"  and  a  shrug,  as  he  came  in,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Yery  cold!"  and  hung  the  thermometer  outside;  while 
So})liy,  the  gardener,  and  Judy,  gathered  themselves  closer 
over  the  kitchen  stove,  the  former  having  brought  the  milk 
out  of  the  cupboard,  and  neared  the  liuckwheat-pan  to  the  fire, 
so  that  the  batter  might  rise  for  breakfast  ;  while  Judy  vSaid, 
putting  her  eyes  and  nose  in,  that  "it  was  ris  enough  now,  and 


I  s  o  u  a'  s    Child.  195 

a 

that  it  better  be  baked  before  it  froze  stiffer  than  the  ice-pond." 
All  these  domestic  reports  made  the  evening  seem  to-  Cora,  as 
Jamie  said  that  it  was.  "  oncommon  cold  ;"  but  after  looking 
out  upon  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  night,  the  glittering  icicles 
that  sparkled  in  the  moonbeams,  on  the  trees  and  bushes,  and 
the  brilliant  northern  lights  that  shot  up  their  rays  from  the 
horizon,  Cora  could  no  longer  refuse. 

After  an  out-door  observation  by  the  Colonel  also,  and  a 
quicker  coming  in,  while  he  banged  the  door,  and  stamped  his 
snowy  boots,  he  gave  a  reluctant  consent  to  tlie  sleigh-ride, 
thinking  that  if  Mr,  Clarendon  proposed  it,  it  luust  be  a  judi- 
cious movement.  So  Cora  ran  to  her  chamber  with  unusual 
satisfaction  to  dress  herself,  for  slie  greatly  enjoyed  a  sleigh-ride, 
and  was  not  fastidious  about  her  company. 

Mr.  Clarendon's  late  silence  regarding  his  old  attachment  and 
hopes  had  entirely  relieved  her  apprehensions,  and  she  had  for 
some  time  evinced  friendly  feehngs  towards  him. 

After  wrapping  herself  in  a  cloak,  with  a  close  hood  and  furs, 
she  stepped  gaily  into  the  sleigh,  and  was  as  merry  as  a  child 
at  the  prospect  of  a  swift  ride  through  the  snow.  Mr.  Claren 
don  preferred  a  cutter,  that  he  might  drive  himself ;  and  Cora 
being  well  tucked  in,  her  fair  face  and  wild  ringlets  being  only 
visible,  Mr.  Clarendon  took  the  reins,  and  away  the  horses  flew. 
Cora  laughed  merrily  at  the  sallies  of  her  companion,  and  was 
herself  unusually  playful  in  conversation.  Down  the  avenue, 
through  the  open  gate  (where  Jamie  stood  to  shut  it),  under 
the  frosted  branches  of  the  chestnut  grove,  out  into  the  open 
lane,  thence  into  the  high  road,  and  over  hill  and  descending 
ground,  the  horses  coursed  with  bounding  speed  and  swiftness  ; 
wiiile  faster,  still  faster,  trotted  the  spirited  animals,  who  seemed 
to  sympathize  with  Cora's  love  of  rapid  motion. 

The  snow  had  newly  fallen,  and  but  a  part  of  the  road  was 
well  broken.  The  country  shone  in  the  moonlight,  like  a  bed 
of  sparkling  crystal,  having  been  crusted  over  in  fresh  beauty. 

At  times  they  were  obliged  to  slacken  their  speed,  impeded 
by  a  drift,  but  Mr.  Clarendon  felt  like  encountering  no  obsta- 
cles, and  dashed  on  to  the  main  road,  with  fearless  precipi 
tancy.  The  night-air  became  so  still,  that  the  extreme  severity 
of  the  atmosphere  was  not  at  first  heeded,  while  beneath  their 
furs  and  thick  covering  they  looked  forth  upon  the  radiant 
landscape.  Cora's  spirits  rose  as  they  proceeded,  and  so  joy- 
ously excited  Mr.  Clarendon  onward,  that  he  became   almost 


196 

reckless  in  liis  rapid  driving.  She  sung  the  gayest  songs  she 
knew,  while  her  companion  occasionally  joined  her  in  the 
chorus.  "  So  I  would  like  to  go  through  life,"  said  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon, "  fast  and  gaily." 

"  Not  quite  so  recklessly,  I  hope,"  said  Cora,  who  now 
endeavored  to  check  their  speed  by  gentle  remonstrance,  she 
having  noticed  that  the  road  was  now  badly  broken,  and  in 
some  places  narrow.  Mr.  Clarendon  perceived  that  the  cold 
was  increasing,  and  tucked  the  robes  more  closely  about  them, 
while  he  proposed  to  her  to  drive  to  an  inn,  not  far  distant, 
where  they  could  find  fire  and  refreshment.  Cora  was  now 
comfortable,  and  forgot  her  prudence  in  the  enjoyment  of  her 
ride.  The  road  in  the  light  of  the  moon  sometimes  presented 
a  delusive  appearance.  The  smooth,  brilliant  surface  spread 
over  the  country,  seemed  made  for  the  play  of  the  gliding 
runner,  and  now  they  proceeded  more  slowly  ;  Cora's  wild 
spirits  were  calmed,  and  in  animated  conversation  the  moments 
swiftly  flew.  They  came  to  a  ravine,  covered  on  one  side  with 
a  grove  of  hemlock  and  underbrush,  which,  in  summer,  was 
thick  with  foliage,  but  now  drifted  up  to  the  tops  of  the  ever- 
greens in  one  vast  body  of  snow,  while  the  other  side  descended 
to  a  brook,  now  densely  frozen.  One  side  of  the  road  was 
occasionally  left  in  shadow,  bewildering  the  most  familiar  eye, 
regarding  the  true  path.  But  Mr.  Clarendon  was  ignorant  of 
the  state  of  these  roads  in  winter,  and  at  any  time  unfamiliar 
with  country  sleigh-riding,  consequently  the  surface  over  which 
he  drove,  bordered  by  glittering  bushes,  looked  like  a  safe  and 
easy  pathway  ;  so  with  less  vigilance  he  drove  on,  increasing 
momentarily  their  speed,  until  Cora  suddenly  screamed  "  Look 
out  for  the  slope,  you  are  near  the  edge  !" 

"No  danger,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  "only  keep  warm;  that 
you  will  be  chilled  is  all  that  occasions  me  fear;"  driving  mean- 
while on  the  edge  of  the  hillock,  above  the  ravine — nearer — 
nearer  he  came  to  the  slope,  one  runner  went  over,  and  next 
went  the  sleigh  !  Both  were  suddenly  upset  into  the  deep 
snow  that  filled  the  ravine,  while  the  horses  dashed  about  uncon- 
trollably in  their  flight.  Mr.  Clarendon  tried  in  vain  to 
hold  them,  they  leaped  the  hillocks  with  the  upset  sleigh,  and 
furiously  dashed  out  of  sight. 

In  dismay,  Mr.  Clarendon  extricated  himself  from  the  bur- 
den of  snow  that  covered  him,  and  made  a  plunge  for  Cora, 
who  was  to  her  waist  in  a  drift,  with  her  eves  blinded,  and  her 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  197 

hands  powerless,  beneath  the  crusted  surface  that  she  had 
thought  so  beautiful.  He  drew  her  as  quickly  as  possible  from 
the  bank  into  which  she  had  been  thrown,  and  placed  her  in  a 
spot  not  over  ankle  deep,  while  he  anxiously  inquh'ed  if  she  was 
hurt. 

As  soon  as  Cora  could  speak,  she  tried  to  play  the  heroine, 
and  to  laugh  at  their  dilemma,  but  when  she  found  that  the 
horses  had  fled  with  the  sleigh  and  robes,  and  that  they  were 
left  in  a  snow  bank,  on  an  intensely  cold  night,  in  such  a  road, 
more  than  a  mile  from  any  habitation,  she  knew  that  her  energy 
and  fortitude  was  required  as  well  as  Mr.  Clarendon's,  for  their 
emergency — for  unsheltered,  they  must  feel  the  cold  in  its  full 
severity. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  much  alarmed,  but  kept  his  fears  from 
Cora,  who  needed  all  his  courage  and  activity.  He  looked  for 
one  moment  upon  the  deep  snow  as  it  lay  one  pure  mass  over 
field  and  hedge,  on  the  scarcely  discernible  path  before 
him,  and  then  at  the  delicate  being  thrown  that  cold  night  upon 
his  protection. 

The  severity  of  the  atmosphere  had  much  increased  since  they 
left  home.  He  remembered  the  situation  of  the  inn  he  had 
proposed  reaching,  and  his  courage  rose  with  the  emergency 
of  the  case.  He  could  easily,  he  felt,  have  found  it  in  summer, 
but  now  the  drifted  snow  blinded  him. 

Cora  gave  him  the  true  direction,  and  though  shivering  and 
trembling,  declared  herself  equal  to  the  walk.  Mr.  Clarendon 
drew  her  cloak  more  closely  about  her,  and  encouraged  her  to 
proceed  instantly  forward,  knowing  that  their  only  safety  was 
in  action.  He  assured  her  that  he  could  carry  her  himseh 
through  the  drifts.  They  started  on  well,  and  Cora  walked 
rapidly,  considering  her  cold  feet  and  the  uneven  path.  The 
road  became  finally  impassable  for  her,  and  they  were  now  so 
much  further  from  home  than  the  inn,  that  they  could  not 
return.  Alone,  Mr.  Clarendon  could  have  progressed,  but 
Cora  was  powerless  to  proceed  ;  he  could  not  now  even  aid  her 
frail  footsteps  through  the  snow.  There  was  but  one  course 
for  him  to  pursue.  He  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and  struggled 
onward.  At  every  appearance  of  a  path  he  allowed  her 
to  walk,  and  thus  they  overcame  half  the  distance  towards  the 
inn.  But  Cora  became  so  extremely  cold,  that  Mr.  Clarendon 
slackened  his  paee  to  ascertain  her  real  situation.  For  a 
moment  he  rested  against  a  frozen  stump,  to  look  about  him. 


198  Is  oka's    Child. 

The  cold,  bright  moon  lit  her  pure,  pale  cheek,  rtow  as  white  as 
the  snow-drifts  they  trod.  He  sought  to  hold  her  cold  face 
next  his  own,  but  she  hastily  buried  it  in  her  muff,  while 
her  teeth  chattered,  and  the  tears  froze  on  her  cheek.  He  rub-, 
bed  her  hands  violently  and  placed  them  within  the  fur  while  he 
said — "  I  would  die  to  save  you  this — ^.cling  to  me,  I  must  carry 
you  a  little  further,  and  then  you  can  walk — poor  child  !  How 
can  I  forgive  myself." 

Cora  knew  that  the  road  would  soon  be  passable,  that  the 
thicket  was  always  drifted,  and  she  tried  to  be  courageous 
and  bear  her  suffering. 

With  heavy  plunges,  Mr.  Clarendon  overcame  the  worst 
banks,  and  bravely  proceeded  on,  but  he  was  soon  benumbed, 
and  forced  to  use  the  utmost  exertion  to  keep  up  vital  warmth  ; 
but  what  chiefly  alarmed  him  was  the  lassitude  that  seemed 
creeping:  over  Cora.  She  no  longer  plead  to  walk.  Her  head 
drooped,  and  her  hands  fell  by  her  side,  powerless.  She  grew 
languid  in  her  tones,  and  no  longer  rejected  his  efforts  to  guard 
her.  He  wrapped  his  own  coat  around  her,  and  strode  on  as 
a  case  only  of  impending  death  could  carry  him.  He  saw 
a  light  through  the  trees.  Agony  at  the  situation  of  the  now 
helpless  girl  gave  new  impetus  to  his  movements,  aside  from 
his  own  sufferings.  He  shouted  long  and  powerfully  for 
help,  and  when  assistance  came  he  had  sunk  prostrate  on  a  bed 
of  snow,  almost  as  senseless  as  Cora.  Through  active  exer- 
tion they  were  borne  in  a  sleigh  to  a  place  of  comfortable 
shelter.  With  remedies,  Mr.  Clarendon  soon  recovered,  but 
Cora  remained  some  time  in  a  stupor.  She  was  carried  to  bed, 
and  vigorous  measures  used  for  her  restoration.  With  inex- 
pressible joy,  Mr.  Clarendon  at  length  witnessed  her  returning 
animation  ;  and  what  gave  him  almost  as  sweet  satisfaction,  he 
heard  her  utter  with  grateful  emotion  while  she  extended  him 
her  hand — "  Thank  God,  through  His  mercy,  and  your  energy, 
we  are  safe." 

The  horses  had  proceeded  violently  homeward,  vv'ith  a  rem- 
nant of  the  cutter,  which  alarming  circumstance  induced  the 
Colonel  to  send  them  instant  relief.  But  the  sleigh  did  not 
reach  them  until  they  had  arrived  at  the  inn,  where  they  were 
found  in  a  revived,  refreshed  condition,  though  still  weak  from 
suffering.  Cora  was  so  anxious  to  return  home  that  Mr.  Clar- 
endon consented,  after  providing  every  necessary  comfort  for 
her  cold  ride. 


I  s  o  R  A  '  s    Child.  199 

Xearly  enveloped  in  furs,  with  artificial  heat,  to  kee]>  from 
her  every  sensation  of  cold,  she  ajrtiin  proceeded  towards  the 
cottas^e  she  left  in  such  high  spirits.  Mr.  Clarendon  was 
wholly  absorbed  with  the  care  of  her,  and  was  rejoiced  when 
she  sank  ag'iinst  his  shoulder  in  a  calm  and  sweet  slumljcr,  as 
free  from  cold  as  on  a  summer  night. 

Her  almost  distracted  parent  received  his  trembling  child  with 
deep  emotion,  and  when,  to  his  infinite  joy,  she  exclaimed  that 
she  had  entirely  recovered,  he  forgave  Clarendon  for  his  heed- 
lessness, and  the  accident  which  seemed  to  him  wholly  without 
reasonable  cause. 

The  house  was  in  a  state  of  bustling  excitement  long  after 
her  arrival,  and  Cora  was  in  almost  as  much  danger  of  dying 
of  heat  as  she  had  been  of  cold,  for  such  fires  were  made  as 
had  never  been  before  seen  or  felt  at  Yillacora.  It  was  use- 
less for  the  idolized  daughter  to  protest  that  she  was  warm, 
well,  and  comfortable,  or  for  Mr.  Clarendon  to  direct  the  Colo- 
nel's attention  to  her  now  brilliant  color.  The  hot  negus  was 
prepared,  and  she  must  drink  it  ;  the  cushioned  chair,  enveloped 
in  blankets,  was  drawn  up  before  the  blazing  hearth,  and  Cora 
must  sit  in  it,  with  her  feet  on  hot  bricks  prepared  for  her  by 
Sophy,  while  Judy  knelt  by  the  side  of  her  to  rub  her  hands, 
wliich  she  had  already  lifted  in  despair  at  the  melting  proceed- 
ings. 

The  Colonel  became  composed,  however,  on  witnessing  her 
evident  recovery,  and  listened  to  the  tale  of  their  adventure  com- 
municated by  Mr.  Clarendon,  with  calmness  and  philosophy. 
Cora  was  finally  considered  sufficiently  warm  for  the  hot  blan- 
kets which  received  her,  where  she  was  soon  in  a  sound  sleep, 
without  even  a  dream  of  her  sleigh-ride. 

Mr.  Clarendon  remained  at  Villacora  until  late  the  next  day, 
but  he  did  not  see  Cora,  who  could  not  afterwards  be  persuaded, 
(at  least  that  season)  to  take  another  sleigh-ride  in  the  country. 
With  njany  kind  messages  to  her,  Mr.  Clarendon  took  leave, 
ejaculating  "  that  it  was  the  first  time  a  young  lady  had  nearly 
frozen  to  death  in  his  company." 


200  Isoka's    Child 


CHAPTER    XYII. 

Yes,  fair  as  the  Syren,  but  false  as  her  song, 

Are  the  world's  painted  shadows  that  lure  us  along. 

Mrs.  S.  J.  Halb. 

AFTER  breakfast  the  followiug  day,  letters  were  banded 
Colonel  Livingston,  one  of  which  occasioned  him  much 
excitement. 

It  was  an  anonymous  communication,  and  written  evidently 
in  a  disguised  hand,  and  ran  as  follows  : 

"  Abandon  you?'  suit  against  Mr.  Wilton — the  evidence  will 
yet  appear  that  will  establish  your  daim.''^ 

Colonel  Livingston  read  this  note  many  times,  and  marvelled 
much  whence  it  came,  and  what  information  he  was  yet  to 
receive  respecting  the  matter  so  interesting  to  him. 

The  letter  gave  him  new  hopes  and  fresh  spirits.  He  desired 
immediately  to  see  Mr.  Clarendon,  and  determined  to  send  for 
him  without  delay.  In  his  surprise  he  forgot  to  hand  to  Cora 
a  letter  which  had  come  by  the  same  mail — a  letter  almost  as 
exciting  to  her  as  his  own.  But  she  caught  a  view  of  it, 
although  the  handwriting  was  reversed  to  her  eye. 

"  Is  not  that  letter  in  your  left  hand  for  me,  papa  V  said 
Cora. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  my  child — it  is,  most  certainly." 

Cora  took  the  epistle,  and  after  reading  it  handed  to  her 
father,  while  she  said, 

"  Read  it,  papa — may  I  go  ?" 

"  Go  ?  my  daughter — where  ? — let  me  see  !  Colonel  Liv- 
ingston pondered  slowly  over  the  contents  of  Cora's  letter, 
when  he  handed  it  to  her  with  an  equivocal  smile. 

It  contained  an  invitation  from  her  cousin,  Fannie  Living- 
ston, of  New  York,  to  attend  her  wedding,  and  to  ofiiciate  as 
bridesmaid.  This  cousin  was  one  of  whom  she  had  seen  little 
since  a  child.  She  was  a  highly-bred  fashionable  girl  of 
three-and-twenty  years,  not  handsome,  but  stylish,  and  some* 


Isora's    Child.  201 

what  haughty.  She  had,  shice  her  delut,  been  bent  upon 
making  an  eligible  match,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  had 
now  succeeded.  She  had  heard  much  of  the  budding  charius 
of  her  young  cousin,  but  not  until  her  own  contract  was  fairly 
made,  would  she  risk  herself  much  in  contrast  with  her  pretty 
relative. 

Colonel  Livingston  had  felt  this  neglect  of  his  daughter, 
which  he  jealously  ascribed  to  his  own  narrowed  fortunes. 
But  the  anonymous  letter  which  he  had  just  received,  gave  a 
new  coloring  to  all  matters,  and  he  accepted  the  courtesy  now 
extended  them  with  friendliness. 

"Do  you  wish  to  go,  Cora?"  he  inquired.  "I  am  afraid 
these  New  Yorkers  will  laugh  at  ray  little  rustic." 

"Let  them  laugh  then,"  said  Cora.  "Little  will  be  ex- 
pected of  me,  and  few  will  notice  me  ;  but  if  one  is  called 
*  rustic,'  I  don't  think  it  should  cause  unhappiness." 

As  Cora  spoke,  she  stood  more  erect,  her  air  was  more  dig- 
nified, and  her  full,  clear  eye  beamed  with  a  truthful  light. 
Her  father  looked  proudly  upon  her.  She  needs  but  society, 
thought  he,  to  show  her  blood.  He  then  looked  from  his 
daughter  to  an  old  painting  which  hung  upon  the  wall  of  the 
apartment.  It  was  a  portrait  of  one  of  his  ancestors  ;  and  he 
thought  he  could  trace  some  resemblance  in  his  daughter  to 
the  revered  picture. 

"  You  may  yet  look  like  your  old  grandmother,  Cora,"  he 
said.  "  She  was  nearly  related  to  Queen  Mary  of  Scotland, 
and  had  the  same  style  of  beauty.  This  picture  has  been 
handed  down  from  generations  to  me.  I  would  not  take 
thousands  for  it.  It  once  hung  in  Linlithgow  Castle  in  Scot- 
land, and  there  your  ancestors  lie  buried,  excepting  those  in 
this  country." 

"  Those  at  Wilton  Park  V  inquired  Cora. 

"  At  '  Livingston  Park.'  I  do  not  recognize  this  bastard 
name.  Do  you  not  see  on  the  silver  before  you,  the  crest  of 
our  family  ?  on  these  old  tankards,  those  spoons,  bearing  our 
name  and  seal.  These  came  to  you  from  your  mother  ;  you 
know  that  she  was  from  the  same  sto?k.  At  your  marriage 
these  shall  all  be  yours,  and  our  coat  of  arms  on  your  carriage  ; 
but  proper  family  pride  is  dying  out  in  this  country." 

"  1  shouldn't  like  that  old  dragon  on  my  carriage,  papa." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  daughter,  that  you  have  not  pride  enough 
to  wish  for  a  carriage  at  all." 

9* 


202  Isoea'sChild. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  lo^e  to  ride,  and  to  drive  too.  I  like  luxury, 
and  often  go  to  dreamland  in  a  fairy  phaeton — a  perfect  Yenus 
car,  with  superb  horses,  flying  through  the  air  " 

"Whom  do  you  go  there  with,  with  such  grand  equipage  ?" 

Cora  was  provoked  with  her  rising  color,  which  w^ould  come, 
though  she  scarcely  kuew  why  ;  but  soon  turned  the  subject  to 
her  dress,  which  she  said  must  all  be  pretty  and  new,  from  a 
Kew  York  modiste. 

Cora  had  never  been  denied  any  wish,  at  whatever  sacrifice. 
Her  father  looked  at  his  only  daughter,  and  sighed  to  think 
how  ill  able  he  was  to  grant  her  every  luxury.  From  her  he 
disguised  his  real  circumstances.  Thus  far  her  w^ants  had  been 
few,  but  he  now  realized  that  they  must  increase,  and  felt  that 
he  could  not  brook  the  criticism  of  her  proud  relatives,  were 
she  to  appear  as  their  guest  not  richly  adorned.  Through  Mr. 
Clarendon  he  was  made  temporarily  easy,  yet  the  debt  was 
daily  growing  larger,  and  the  load  often  weighed  heavily  upon 
his  spirits  ;  but  this  morning  his  heart  was  lighter,  he  felt  posi- 
tive that  he  should  yet  see  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  restored. 
He  remembered  that  Mr.  Clarendon  had  earnestly  pressed 
upon  him  sums  of  money  without  security,  wdiich  he  had 
hitherto  refused — now  the  temptation  to  show  to  the  eyes  of 
the  w^orld.his  jewel  richly  set,  overcame  his  judgment. 

He  fell  into  a  reverie,  and  was  lost  in  a  dream  of  ideal  pros- 
perity. The  bright  sunbeams  that  danced  on  the  wall  seemed 
the  gildings  of  wealth  ;  the  crested  silver  spoons  and  tankards 
before  him  became  magnified  into  massive  armorial  plate  ;  and 
the  rampant  dragon  of  heraldry,  the  Bucephalus  on  which  he 
rode  to  prosperity  and  fortune.  Could  his  daughter  that  instant 
have  appeared  before  him,  with  her  ringlets  powdered  and 
puffed,  her  form  arrayed  in  old  ancestral  attire,  he  would  have 
gallantly  handed  her  a  chair,  fancying  himself  the  veritable  Sir 
Philip  Livingston,  and  she  the  Lady  Livingston,  set  free  from 
canvas,  in  living  pride  and  beauty  before  him. 

But  Cora  was  in  another  land — one  of  living  fragrance,  where 
springs  of  feeling  welled  up  and  watered  it — where  flowers 
blossomed  in  rose  and  azure  hues,  and  the  music  of  the  spheres 
carried  her  rapturously  beyond  the  present  to  a  blissful  future. 

How  unlike  she  looked,  with  her  soft  young  face,  and  rich 
red  lips,  to  her  stately  grandam,  as  she  now  viewed  her — who 
might  once  have  been  as  beautiful,  but  long  since  had  been 
coffined  dust. 


Isoka's    Child.  203 

The  clat^-Qring  produced  by  the  removal  of  the  breakfast 
things  rou.>^ed  the  dreaming  Colonel,  who  awoke  to  the  actual 
world,  and  his  own  situation  in  it. 

"But.  what  am  I  to  do  without  my  daughter?"  said  he, 
drawing  Cora  to  his  side,  as  she  again  sought  her  leiter. 

A  shadow  passed  over  Cora's  face  :  her  father  saw  it,  and 
said,  "  I  have  many  business  matters  on  hand,  and  you  might 
be  troublesome  ;  so  it  were  better  that  you  were  away.  I  am 
glad  to  have  you  become  acquainted  with  your  relatives — a 
good  introduction,  too.  Besides,"  continued  the  Colonel, 
putting  aside  the  hair  from  his  daughter's  cheek,  '*  you  will  see 
Mr.  Clarendon  in  town,  who  will  do  much  for  your  enjoyment." 

Cora  turned  away,  and  her  father  did  not  see  the  expression 
he  sought  for.  The  following  week,  she  parted,  for  the  first 
time,  from  her  parent.  She  felt  a  little  troubled  after  making 
her  decision  to  go  ;  she  feared  that  she  would  be  needed  by 
some  one  dependent  upon  her  for  daily  kindness.  She  cried  a 
little  at  first  ;  then  laughing  through  her  wet  lashes,  declared 
herself  a  simpleton  to  think  she  was  of  so  much  consequence. 
The  next  day,  a  letter  came  to  Colonel  Livingston  from  Mr. 
Clarendon,  in  which  he  stated  his  intention  of  being  absent  a 
few  days.  This  was  a  matter  of  much  regret  to  the  Colonel, 
as  he  could  not  apprise  him  of  Cora's  intended  visit  to  Xew 
York. 

The  day  at  last  came  for  her  departure.  The  parting  kiss  is 
given — the  loving  child  is  pressed  to  her  father's  bosom,  and 
Cora  takes  leave  of  her  childhood's  home,  where  as  yet  sorrow 
had  made  its  impress  lightly,  as  the  morning  cloud  darkens  the 
sky  of  early  June. 

The  arrival  of  Cora  at  the  home  of  her  cousin  was  an  event 
of  interest  to  them  both'.  The  one  had  matured  from  girlhood 
into  the  woman  of  the  world  ;  the  other  emerged  from  the 
child  into  the  spring-like  loveliness  of  seventeen  years.  They 
met  with  characteristic  warmth.  The  greeting,  on  the  part  of 
Fannie,  was  more  composed  and  elegant  than  affectionate. 
True,  her  welcome  abounded  in  caressing  epithets — her  embrace 
would  have  been  perfect  in  a  tableau — not  a  hair  was  mis- 
placed, not  a  fold  of  her  rich  dress  rumpled,  as  her  white  jew- 
elled arms  encircled  the  waist  and  neck  of  Cora,  and  again  and 
again  welcomed  her  rural  cousin. 

Cora  thought  less  of  herself:  naturally  a  lady,  art  or  study 
could  not  improve  her  gentle,  fascinating  manner.     The  stylish 


204  Isora's    Child. 

city  belle  was  taken  by  surprise  ;  she  looked  for  some  gaucherie, 
something  betraying  country  breeding,  instead  of  the  simple 
elegance  of  Cora.  She  could  only  account  for  her  refinement 
in  the  fact,  that  she  was  a  "  veritable  Livingston."  She  flat- 
tered her,  until  Cora  earnestly  solicited  her  to  desist,  and  talk 
of  herself. 

"  Well,  dearest,"  she  said, ''  you  wish  to  hear  of  my  prospects 
matrimonial.  It  is  quite  natural,  my  fair  coz  ;  but  everything 
in  time.  Annie  will  now  show  you  your  room,  where  you  will 
refresh  yourself,  and  prepare  for  dinner.  Don't  hasten  down, 
love.  Let  me  see  (she  looked  at  her  watch);  it  is  yet  early. 
I  will  accompany  you  there,  and  relieve  your  apprehensions 
respecting  poor  Cousin  Fannie,  who,  perhaps,  you  hear,  is 
going  to  sacrifice  herself  on  the  altar  of  Mammon.  Happiness, 
in  my  view,  comes,  as  a  matter  of  course,  with  luxury.  That's 
the  essential,  my  darling  ;  and  so  you  will  find  it,  if  you  live  in 
New  York.  My  arrangements  are  all  made — an  establishment 
quite  complete — all  elegant  simplicity,  dear.  This,  you  know, 
Xapoleou  considered  Josephine's  great  extravagance — her  pen- 
chant for  costly  simplicity.  Well,  I  shall  have  a  superb  house 
in  the  only  place  where  people  live  in  New  York — the  aristo- 
cracy. I  mean,  of  course,  to  shut  up  when  others  do,  and  go 
to  some  mosquito  swamp  until  the  fashionables  come  back. 
Carriage,  livery,  and  et  celeras,  follow.  All  is  right,  Cora, 
love." 

"  But  you  have  said  nothing  of  Mr.  Sidney  " 

"  Oh,  you  will  see  him,  dear.  How  can  you  exist  among 
those  woods  !  I  should  be  so  ennuied — geese  and  horrid  cows, 
I  suppose,  about  you.  Poor  little  dove  !  Do  you  ever  walk? 
— don't  the  toads  and  grasshoppers  bite  you  ?  I  suppose  they 
run  wild  like  the  chickens.  I  never  could  abide  the  country. 
I  have  to  endure  it  in  July  and  August,  to  preserve  my  looks  ; 
but  I  nearly  die  with  noises  while  I  am  rusticating  ;  no  one 
would  suppose  that  you  had  been  so  reared.  How  soft  and 
small  your  hands  are  !  I  thought  one  must  have  red  hands 
and  large  feet,  out  of  town  refinements.  I  am  really  ignorant, 
dear,  and  quite  illiberal  from  education,  not  frcm  nature,  I 
hope.  You  will  be  quite  a  la  mode — a  huge  box  has  come  for 
you  from  your  dress-maker.  Here  we  are,  my  love,  at  your 
room.  I  shall  be  occupied  until  dinner.  Come  down  when 
you  feel  entirely  refreshed,  and  quite  composed.  It  is  so 
frightful  to  be  flushed  and  flurried.  Lie  down,  my  love,  and  let 


Isoka's    Child.  205 

Annie  batlie  your  head  and  eyelids  with  rose-water,  and  soothe 
your  nerves.  You  will  find  some  pellets  of  Belladonna  on 
your  dressing-table  ;  take  a  few,  dear,  and  rest  yourself,  soul 
and  body."  Cousin  Fannie  then  took  Cora's  little  hand  in 
both  of  her  own,  and  touched  her  forehead  gracefully  and 
compGse.dhj,  leaving  Cora  almost  statue-like,  from  a  suddeu 
chill,  that  excess  of  sensibility  in  her  cousin  had  most  unac- 
countably induced. 

Cora  looked  about  her  beautiful  chamber  after  she  was  left 
aloue,  and  seating  herself  upon  a  low  chair,  surveyed  the 
splendor  about  her.  She  had  visited  many  of  her  city  rela- 
tives while  a  school-girl  in  town,  but  had  never  been  before 
noticed  by  this  family.  She  felt,  as  yet,  strange  and  rather 
bewildered.  A  superb  Psyche  glass  reflected  her  slight  f  gure, 
arrayed  in  a  dark  travelling  dress,  with  hat  and  veil,  which 
now  hung  carelessly  over  her  neck,  while  she  held  it  by  the 
strings  and  meditated. 

Her  hair  was  parted  carelessly  back,  and  her  look  rather 
bespoke  a  doubt  of  her  satisfaction.  She  had  not  yet  seen  her 
aunt,  whom  she  knew  was  a  very  fashionable,  elegant  woman, 
and  the  greeting  of  her  cousin  had  quite  overpowered  her  with 
its  overwhelming  cordiality.  The  luxury  about  her  dazzled 
and  delighted  her  ;  she  was  fond  of  it,  and  seemed  formed  to 
enjoy  all  the  elegances  of  life.  She  did  not  know  why  she  felt  a 
little  sad.  A  servant  had  brought  her  refreshments  on  a  silver 
waiter,  and  had  placed  delicious  perfume  upon  her  toilette 
table,  and  she  was  left  either  to  sleep,  rest,  or  bathe,  after  her 
arrival.  She  thought  that  her  cousin  was  perfect  in  her 
elegant  reception  of  her  ;  yet  she  feared  that  her  aunt  would 
chill  her  with  the  same  extravagant  but  subdued  joy.  She 
had  been  disappointed  in  her  cousin's  briefly  expressed  views 
of  happiness,  and  life  never  seemed  to  her  so  rain  as  Avhen  she 
heard  its  allurements,  its  splendor,  its  gorgeous  trappings, 
spoken  of  as  the  desideratum  to  be  gained.  Such  worship 
made  her  think  of  the  heathen's  love  for  gods  of  wood  and 
stone.  But  as  she  looked  at  her  tumbled  dress,  and  caught  a 
view  of  her  disordered  hair,  she  felt  that  this  was  no  time  to 
moralize,  and  determined  that  she  would  shake  off  her  foolish 
depression,  and  find  all  the  enjoyment  that  she  had  anticipated. 
She  had  come  to  town,  and  it  was  her  first  winter  out,  and  she 
felt  that  she  ought  to  be  very  happy,  and  also  gratified,  as  her 
father  said,  "  to  make  \i^x  dehut  with  such  presentation." 


206  Isoka's    Child. 

Tt  was  certainly  delightful  to  bathe  in  such  luxury,  though 
she  did  not  know  that  her  face  came  out  of  the  perfumed 
bath  any  fresher  or  sweeter  than  in  the  liquid  element  of  her 
own  snowy  chamber,  or  that  the  splendid  mirror  in  which  she 
arranged  her  hair,  reflected  any  hues  more  beautiful  than  the 
toilette  glass  where  she  had,  when  a  child,  brushed  her  light 
dancing  curls.  Still  each  object  on  which  her  eye  rested, 
spoke  of  wealth,  and  the  novelty  pleased  her. 

Casting  her  eyes  about  her,  she  perceived  her  dresses 
arranged  for  her  selection.  Here  were  morning  robes,  dinner, 
and  evening  dresses,  with  every  article  of  fancy  dress  to  match 
them,  with  taste  and  propriety.  Cora  was  fond  of  beautiful 
dress,  and  fascinated  with  coloring,  whether  in  gem,  flower,  or 
fabric.  The  arrangement  of  such  hues  tastefully,  seemed  lo 
her  akin  to  the  art  of  painting. 

Feehiig  wearied,  she  threw  herself  upon  her  bed,  to  await 
the  hour  for  dressing.  As  she  looked  at  her  wardrobe,  and  at 
the  well-filled  trunk,  whose  contents  her  cousin  had  ordered, 
the  bill  of  which  liad  been  sent  to  her  father — a  feeling  of 
uneasiness  crept  over  her — yet  she  did  not  know  how  unable 
he  was  to  meet  the  expense — and  fortunately  Cora  soon  forgot 
that  there  w^as  any  bill  in  the  matter,  for  the  articles  were 
bought,  and  she  was  to  wear  them  with  a  happy  face. 

She  had  sunk  into  a  light  slumber,  when  a  waiting-maid  came 
softly  in  to  assist  her  to  dress,  which  aroused  Cora  to  the  new 
excitement  of  making  her  appearance  in  the  parlor  and  at 
dinner. 

A  selection  was  soon  made,  and  a  rich  silk  of  deep  blue  fitted 
to  her  beautiful  figure.  Her  maid  was  so  charmed  by  her 
profusion  of  soft,  golden  hair,  that  in  its  arrangement  she  left 
it  partly  to  the  free  play  of  nature.  The  costliest  Mechlin, 
secured  by  a  diamond  pin,  contrasted  her  white  throat  becom- 
ingly, leaving  her  simply,  but  richly  adorned.  The  admiring 
femme  de  chambrc,  while  she  drew  down  the  long,  sweeping  folds 
of  her  dress,  exclaimed  that  "  it  was  ten  thousand  pities  to 
cover  her  dear  little  feet." 

On  re-entering  the  parlor,  she  w^as  received  by  her  elegant, 
but  ceremonious  aunt,  who  touched  both  her  cheeks  gracefully, 
and  welcomed  her  to  New-York,  as  a  "  sweet  young  cousin 
that  she  had  long  desired  to  greet."  Appropriate  inquiries 
were  then  made  for  her  father's  health,  with  the  hope  that  she 
had  larked  nothing  for  her  morning's  comfort.     Cora  timidlj 


Guild.  207 

replied,  and  sunk  back  on  a  satin  lounge,  in  admiring  awe 
of  her  new  relations.  Her  Cousin  Fannie  was  dressed  in  superb 
costume,  and  rose  to  receive  lier  with  the  gloved  tips  of  two 
fingers,  while  she  rapturously  nmrniured  in  a  subdued  voice,  her 
delight  at  her  coming — tliough  she  secretly  wishea  that  she  had 
not  been  so  unnecessarily  beautiful. 

The  aunt  and  cousin  were  engrossed  (so  near  the  w^edding) 
in  private  conversation,  a  part  of  which  was  conducted  in 
an  undertone,  in  French,  while  many  civil  things  were  at  inter- 
vals sent  across  at  Cora,  who  fortunately  had  a  book  of  engrav- 
ings to  look  at,  besides  what  she  received  "  over  the  way." 
But  Cora  took  no  exceptions  to  this  exclusiveness,  supposing  it 
Uyle,  only  was  a  little  surprised,  when  on  the  I'mtree  of  a  rich 
city  friend,  that  they  were  never  more  at  leisure,  and  could 
converse  quite  as  conveniently  in  their  native  tongue,  which, 
after  all,  would  have  been  as  well  at  first,  as  Cora's  education  in 
Xew-York  had  made  her  familiar  with  both  languages. 

Cora,  of  course,  was  now  more  than  ever  absorbed  in  her 
pictures,  though  slie  could  not  help  observing  how  very  devo- 
ted her  new  relatives  had  become  to  their  fashionable  friend, 
considering  their  many  apologies  for  the  private  conferences 
that  they  were  obliged  to  hold.  She  had  not  yet  learned  to 
feel  herself  a  country  cousin,  and  poor  withal.  She  did  not 
know  that  the  great  pains  which  her  cousin  had  taken  in  pro- 
curing her  wardrobe,  was  all  to  gratify  "the  family"  pride, 
and  that  it  mattered  little  to  them  whether  the  retired  Colonel 
paid  the  bill  at  once,  or  allowed  it  to  be  sued.  And  so  the 
request  that  Cousin  Fannie  would  procure  her  '*  a  few  fashiona- 
ble dresses  and  laces,"  was  received  as  a  carte  blanche  for  a 
splendid  and  costly  wardrobe. 

Cora  watched  her  cousin  with  much  interest,  and  turned 
from  her  engravings  to  the  living  picture,  that  was  to  her  eye 
a  study.  The  latter  was  dressed  with  artistic  taste,  and  carried 
herself  without  a  fault.  She  had  been  trained  to  beautiful 
attitudes,  and  seldom  changed  from  the  most  perfect,  under 
the  lapse  of  five  minutes.  These  tableaux  delighted  Cora,  who 
had  no  conception  of  the  time,  or  pains,  with  which  they  were 
gottea  up  ;  or  how  much  they  cost,  considering  the  drar)ery 
and  scenery,  for  the  light  of  rosy-stained  glass,  or  softer-hued 
damask,  formed  no  small  part  of  the  whole  effect  produced  by 
the  lovers  of  the  fine  arts. 

But  the  fashionable  and  wealthy  Miss  S.  had  left,  and  the 


208  Isoea's    Child. 

languid  and  elegant  Miss  Livingston  relieved  from  all  effort. 
On  the  whole,  the  latter  was  delighted  with  Cora,  as  a  visitor, 
she  was  "  so  good  to  amuse  herself,"  and  if  she  was  fresh  from 
the  country,  she  was  well  dressed,  and  had  already  a  good  deal 
of  the  Livingston  air  about  her.  She  thought,  too,  that  she 
would  be  convenient  to  assign  some  of  the  quiet,  good  souls  to, 
for  entertainment,  who  must  sometimes  be  invited,  and  must  be 
treated  with  civility  ;  and  she  was  so  pretty,  she  had  no 
doubt,  being  a  visitor  of  the  family,  that  she  would  attract 
some  attention,  and  improve  by  society.  She,  therefore,  felt 
very  kindly  towards  Cora,  and  approached  her,  intending  to 
tell  her  "  she  was  looking  so  charmingly,  that  she  would  be 
the  belle  of  the  season."  But  when  she  encountered  the  pure 
and  intelligent  gaze  of  her  young  cousin's  blue  eyes,  and  felt 
the  influence  of  that  unmistakable  dignity  and  grace,  which 
admitted  of  no  condescending  approbation,  Cousin  Fannie's 
tongue  was  silenced,  and  her  eyes  alone  spoke  her  sincere 
admiration  of  one,  who  most  provokingly  won  her  respect,  for 
her  unaccountable  manners  and  bearing. 

Dinner  company  was  expected,  and  Cora  felt  some  embar- 
rassment when  she  knew  that  all  would  be  strangers  to  her 
and  that,  if  as  little  pains  were  taken  to  converse  with  her,  a? 
had  already  been  manifested,  she  would  have  a  dull  time  of  it 
But  a  "nice  young  man"  soon  came  in,  with  a  very  slick 
appearance,  and  manners  to  match.  Cousin  Fannie  imme- 
diately brought  him  to  Cora,  presuming  that  she  would  be 
delighted  with  such  a  "genteel  little  beau,"  and  as  he  was 
young  and  animated,  that  he  would  doubtless  like  her  "pretty, 
well-dressed,  little  cousin." 

But  Cora  did  not  despise  the  "  nice  little  beau,"  althougli 
he  in  no  way  interested  her,  for  she  found  in  his  unassuming 
garb  and  manners,  that,  like  herself,  he  was  among  strangers, 
and  ill  at  ease.  Her  goodness  of  heart  led  her  to  forget  her- 
self in  her  desire  to  remove  his  embarrassment.  Her  smiles 
made  him  happier  than  during  any  moments  of  his  first  town- 
visit.  Others,  too,  of  more  brilliant  appearance  and  conver- 
sation, soon  sought  her,  until  she  was  surrounded,  much  to  her 
cousin's  surprise,  by  a  swarm  of  admirers. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Cousin  Fannie  sat  in  picturesque  repose, 
behind  an  exquisite  fan,  engaging  a  circle  of  her  more  fashion- 
able friends  with  her  elegant  phrases  and  studied  conversation  ; 
during  which  a  young  gentleman  entered  the  parlor  v/ith  a 


Isoka's    Child.  209 

privileged  air,  aud  seated  himself  by  her  side,  so  near  that  she 
was  forced  to  retreat,  while  she  exclaimed,  imploringly  : 

"  You  incorrigible  man  I  You  have  nearly  ruined  my  robe 
aud  lace  by  your  abrupt  entrance."  Then,  with  the  tap  of  her 
fan  on  the  shoulder  of  her  favorite,  she  said,  "  Behave  well  for 
the  future,  aud  I  will  introduce  you  to  my  pretty  country 
cousin." 

"  Oh,  I  am  well  satisfied,"  said  the  young  man,  with  mock 
gallantry.  "  It  would  be  so  beautiful  to  see  you  sufficiently 
animated  to  get  provoked,  that  I  like  to  be  brusque  aud 
uncouth,  to  spoil  your  elegant  languor." 

"  You  are  positively  horrible,"  she  languidly  murmured. 

*'  Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  commencing 
to  fan  the  lady  so  violently  that  there  was  infinite  danger  of 
misplacing  several  hairs  on  her  well  glossed  plaits,  while  he 
threatened  worse  disturbance,  unless  she  pointed  out  immedi- 
ately her  pretty  cousin. 

"  Oh,  seriously  you  will  be  disappointed  ;  she  is  just  out,  and 
quite  fresh  ;  and  such  a  marketable  young  man  as  you  are, 
au  heir  in  perspective,  can't  afford  the  time  to  look  up  country 
beauties.  You  are  too  much  in  demand  in  New  York  society, 
to  go  out  of  it  among  the  rural  belles  for  a  wife." 

"  But  I  am  a  country  bumpkin  myself." 

"  But  well  made  over,  when  you  choose  to  play  the  gentle- 
man. Being  just  from  Europe,  too,  gives  you  edat.  Three 
years  travel  abroad  has  quite  humanized  you,  excepting  when 
you  assume  your  rough  ways  to  annoy  me." 

"  But  I  have  been  all  summer  looking  as  rough  as  a  fisher- 
boy,  doing  little  else  but  hunting  game  and  sporting  a  fish 
pole.  But  1  lost  my  heart  doing  it  ;  and  what  is  worse,  fear 
that  I  shall  never  recover  it  ;  so  I  don't  care  to  see  your  pretty 
cousin.  By  the  way,  is  Colonel  Livingston,  of  Villacora.  a 
relative  of  yours  ?" 

"  Yes,"  drawled  Cousin  Eannie,  "he  is  of  our  stock." 

While  she  spoke,  the  attention  of  the  young  gentleman  was 
attracted  towards  a  mirror  which  reflected  a  group,  among 
which  sat  Cora  Livingston.  His  rapt  gaze  excited  the 
curiosity  of  the  elegant  belle,  who  was  unaccustomed  to 
neglect,  and  immediately  observed,  from  the  direction  of  her 
companion's  eyes,  that  they  were  fastened  on  her  cousin. 

The  darkened  room  bewildered  the  vision  of  each,  and  not 
until  their  eyes  met  did  the  old  friends  recognize  each  other. 


210  Isoea's    Child. 

Rufus  Wilton  had  been  during  the  winter  in  town,  but  the 
fascinations  of  the  city  had  never  banished  from  his  mind  the 
only  being  who  had  ever  captivated  hira.  He  had  heard  with 
pain  of  her  reputed  engagement  to  Mr.  Clarendon,  and  had 
endeavored  to  philosophize  under  the  disappointment ;  still  not 
without  hope;  he  had  not  yet  heard  it  confirmed  by  Cora. 
When  he  first  caught  sight  of  the  vision  in  ihe  mirror,  it  for- 
cibly reminded  him  of  Cora  Livingston,  but  he  knew  not  of 
her  arrival  in  town,  or  that  she  was  coming;  moreover,  dress 
bad  clianged  the  style  of  her  appearance.  He  had  only  seen 
her  simple  as  a  wild  flower,  and  though  the  snperb  reflection 
reminded  him  of  her,  for  a  moment  he  doubted.  He  was 
bewildered  and  fascinated.  He  tried  to  listen  to  the  lady 
beside  him,  but  his  eyes  and  thoughts  were  only  on  the  mirror, 
reflecting  the  image  of  Cora,  whom  he  could  not  see.  She 
also  saw  Wilton,  and  in  the  fashionable-looking  man  with  her 
cousin,  scarcely  recognized  the  careless  sportsman,  with  his 
cap  and  blouse,  as  she  had  mostly  seen  him  on  the  Hudson. 
Still  the  ease  and  general  indiflerence  to  his  appearance  was 
apparent,  and  she  thought  of  Rufus  Wilton. 

To  all  who  knew  the  latter  intimately,  it  was  evident  that 
he  had  never  had  the  early  training  of  a  mother,  or  the  influ- 
ence of  a  kind  sister.  As  Uncle  Peter  said,  "  Rufe  had  come 
up  his  own  way." 

But  grace  so  much  characterized  all  he  said  or  did,  that  he 
was  saved  severe  criticism,  and,  having  no  prim  aunt  to  scold 
him  for  his  crazy-looking  locks,  or  for  an  abandon  of  manner, 
sometimes  denounced  as  reckless,  he  was  rarely  unforgiveu  by 
the  most  exacting,  for  it  was  Rufus  Wilton's  way,  and  no  one 
expected  him  to  be  strictly  governeJ  by  the  conventionalities 
of  life.  And  to  those  who  did  not  know  his  eniraging  qualities, 
he  was  the  son  and  heir  of  the  rich  Roger  Wilton,  which  was 
enough  to  gloss  his  faults  in  the  eyes  of  the  most  ceremonious 
city  belle. 

But  while  we  are  digressing,  he  has  recognized  Cora,  and 
without  a  word  of  apology  to  her  cousin,  is  at  her  side.  But 
although  he  had  secured  the  seat  envied  by  her  new  host  of 
admirers,  and  one  near  enough  to  see  the  evident  emotion  his 
abrupt  appearance  caused  her,  a  sudden  chill  has  silenced  his 
tongue,  and  he  can  only  look,  and  love  ;  the  magnetism  which 
enchained  him  growing  momentarily  more  attractive.  The 
rumor  of  her  engagement  to  Mr.  Clarendon  became  the  burder. 


Isora's    Child.  211 

that  weighed  upon  his  spirits,  and  as  he  looted  upon  her  in 
her  rich  city  attire,  he  saw  how  well  she  was  fitted  by  nature 
to  adorn  the  coiispicnous  station  she  would  fill  as  his  wife.  He 
was  overjoyed  at  her  arrival  in  town,  bnt  amazed  at  the  step, 
he  knew  not  why;  perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  not  expected 
it.  Unconsciously  to  herself  Cora's  sweet  face  grew  thought- 
ful, and  her  low  voice  tremulous;  for  some  invisible  agency 
seemed  at  work,  filling  to  overflowing  the  fountain  of  feehng. 
She  felt  how  little  her  life  was  governed  by  the  external  cir- 
cumstances around  her,  how  oiuch  deeper  was  the  inner  temple 
where  she  garnered  her  hopes  and  her  fears — how  much  sweeter 
was  the  fairy  land  she  peopled,  where  one  bright  image  stood 
prominent.  What  now  to  her  was  this  crowd  of  worshipers 
around  her  ?  She  only  felt  the  presence  of  one,  and  he  was 
near  her,  the  most  silent  and  abstracted.  Cousin  Fannie 
observed,  that,  as  she  expected,  the  rich  young  Wilton 
regarded  her  country  cousin  with  indifference,  and  that, 
although  her  novelty  and  freshness  had  attracted  him,  she 
was,  to  his  taste,  insipid. 

Still  she  was  puzzled  to  imagine  why  he  remained  so  long  in 
her  society,  for  she  thought  that  her  young  favorite  appreciated 
too  well  the  arts  and  elegances  of  society,  u^^t  to  be  soon 
wearied  with  beautiful  simplicity. 

The  moment  that  Wilton  had  so  ardently  coveted,  was  now 
his.  He  had  never  seen  Cora  so  unexceptionably  lovely,  but 
she  still  seemed  further  than  ever  from  him.  Here  were  no 
rude  steps  of  stone  and  moss  to  require  his  assistance  in  ascent 
or  descent  ;  her  wild  freedom  was  gone,  her  varying  color  and 
downcast  eye  only  revealing  his  Cora  of  the  dell  and  arbor. 

But  stiffness  and  restraint  were  so  foreign  to  the  nature  of 
each,  that  Wilton  v/as  resolved  to  extricate  himself  from  his 
fetters  and  to  approach  Cora  on  more  familiar  terms. 

Leaning  forward,  while  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers,  he  said, 
"  Miss  Cora,  let  me  show  you  some  pictures  in  the  adjoining 
room.     You  are  too  quiet  here." 

Cora  never  felt  more  grateful  for  the  movement,  and  so 
easily  and  quietly  was  his  arm  presented,  and  so  unconsciously 
she  went  forth  from  the  amazed  circle  who  witnessed  the  cool- 
ness of  Wilton's  manner,  in  his  monopoly  of  the  charms  of  the 
young  beauty,  that  she  was  standing  before  "  Raphael's 
Angels,"  alone  with  her  admirer,  before  she  had  recovered 
from  her  bewilderment. 


212  I  s  o  R  a'  s    Child. 

The  spot  which  Wilton  had  selected  for  a  tete-a-tete,  waa 
one  fall  of  choice  works  of  art,  where  books,  statuary,  and  rare 
paintings  abounded.  It  was  a  sweet,  retired  place,  and 
opened  out  of  the  parlor. 

"  Here  is  one  picture,"  said  Cora's  corcipanion,  "that  I  wish 
you  to  look  at." 

She  approached  it  with  Wilton.  It  represented  a  deserted 
child,  and  the  scene  admirably  portrayed,  wrapt  "them  in 
mutual  delight — pensive  rapture,  such  as  the  subject  of  the 
painting  inspired.  A  beautiful  young  mother  seemed  bidding 
adieu  to  her  sleeping  child.  The  mother  rested  on  her  knee 
by  the  infant's  cradle,  while  with  clasped  hands  she  seemed 
invoking  the  blessing  of  heaven  upon  it. 

"  How  sad,  and  yet  how  beautiful  !"  said  Cora. 

Wilton's  face  was  eloquent  with  feeling.  "  I  would  give 
much  for  that  picture,"  said  he,  as  he  turned  away.  With  a 
sad  smile,  he  continued,  "  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  and 
there  are  few  tales  of  romance,  few  paintings  that  depict 
scenes  too  highly  drawn.  Life  has  more  pictures  of  woe  than 
the  artist  or  novelist  ever  conceived  ;  and  yet  we  are  very  apt 
to  say,  *  How  unnatural  !'  Pardon  me,  that  scene,  even  on 
canvas,  makes  me  sad.  Will  you  drive  away  the  impression 
with  one  of  your  old  songs  ?  here  is  a  piano." 

Cora  made  no  reply,  but  took  up  some  music,  and  seated 
herself  at  the  instrument,  when  in  sweet  tones,  though  not 
powerfully,  she  sung  some  touching  words.  Wilton  turned  her 
leaves,  and  joined  her  in  the  chorus. 

"  I  would  now  like  something.  Miss  Cora,"  said  Wilton, 
"  that  carries  me  back  to  our  old  woods." 

Cora  turned  to  an  appropriate  song,  that  winged  him  seem- 
ingly on  the  tones  of  a  seraph,  to  the  heart  of  the  forest, 
where,  among  violets  and  daisied  mounds,  he  sat  again  at  the 
feet  of  his  woodland  fairy.  Through  several  stanzas  Cora 
sung  without  interruption;  she  then  suddenly  stopped,  while  by 
placing  her  fingers  upon  the  leaf,  she  prevented  the  turning  of 
another  page. 

"  Why  do  you  stop  ?"  said  Wilton,  smiling,  while  he  play- 
fully attempted  to  lift  her  hand  from  the  music.  "  It  is  very 
sweet  ;"  and  from  Cora's  half-turned  face  and  deepening  color, 
something  seemed  to  have  been  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

The  leaf  was,  in  the  contest,  finally  turned,  when  a  withered 
bunch  of  violets  fell  upon  the  carpet-.     Wilton  knew  them  by 


Child.  213 

the  ribbon  with  which  he  had  tied  them,  having  taken  it  from 
a  small  key  which  locked  his  little  treasured  silver  box,  con- 
tainhig  the  relics  which  he  supposed  were  once  his  mother's. 

As  he  took  the  pressed  flowers  from  the  carpet  he  said, 
vhile  he  sought  the  blue  eyes  now  averted, 

"  You  have  kept  the  flowers,  if  you  have  forgotten  the  giver." 

Cora  made  no  reply,  though  she  took  the  flowers,  laying 
'Jiem  again  on  the  pianoforte. 

"  Tell  me  why  you  did  not  proceed,"  said  Wilton,  as  his 
hand  rested  a  moment  on  the  little  fingers  that  laid  the  music 
aside.   • 

"  Because  I  did  not  wish  you  to  see  them,"  said  she,  con- 
fusedly. 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  the  young  man,  still  seeking  the  eyes  so 
busy  with  the  flowers  on  the  carpet. 

"  You  must  think  it  very  foolish  for  me  to  keep  them  so 
long." 

"  That  w^ould  depend  upon  the  motive  which  induced  you  to 
keep  them." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  kept  them,  excepting  that  1  did  not 
like  to  throw  them  away,"  said  Cora. 

'*  But  there  was  something  that  went  with  the  flowers  that 
you  must  also  keep,  and  not  throw  away,  Cora,"  whispered  the 
young  man.  "  I  have  heard  tales  of  late  that  have  chilled  me  ; 
I  have  tried  to  become  indifferent  to  them,  but  they  still  weigh 
like  lead  on  my  mind." 

Cora  was  silent,  but  her  cheek  grew  pale  with  feeling,  and 
her  lip  trembled. 

"  Tell  me,  ?ioi^,"  said  he,  "  before  we  are  interrupted,  is  your 
hand,  by  your  own  free  will,  engaged  to  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  I  am 
presuming,  perhaps  impertinent,  but  do  nci  misjudge  my 
motive  in  the  inquiry  ?" 

"  Oh  I  no,"  said  Cora,  "  it  is  not." 

The  eyes  of  Wilton  expressed  his  relief  and  joy. 

"  Come  then,"  said  he,  "  to  this  seat  by  the  window,  and 
give  me  one  answer  more." 

Beneath  folds  of  crimson  damask,  on  the  cushioned  seat,  there 
Wilton  breathed,  in  a  few  words,  a  confession  of  his  love  for 
the  pure,  sweet  girl  of  his  idolatry.  And  beneath  those  heavy 
silken  folds  they  passed  an  hour  never  forgotten  through  many 
an  after  year — through  trial  and  change — through  winter  and 
summer,  when  life  had  revealed  to  them  manv  a  leaf  dyed  with 


214  Isora's    Child. 

ineffaceable  memories.  On  the  full  tablet,  in  burning  chv^rnc- 
ters,  stood  ever  written  the  vows  ot  that  morning  hour.  In  the 
clear  depths  of  those  deep,  peculiar  eyes,  Cora  read  the  pas- 
sionate love  of  an  honest  heart,  and  the  yielding,  unconscious 
tenderness  of  tones  that  melted  on  his  ear,  while  they  Hsped  no 
confession,  told  him  of  love,  fond  as  his  own.  They  saw  not 
into  futurity — they  read  not  the  higher  purposes  of  heaven — 
they  felt  not  that  they  required  that  discipline  of  the  heart 
which  brings  its  own  reward,  those  teachings  which  can  only 
be  learned  from  the  triumphs  of  principle,  and  a  self-denying 
spirit. 

Cora  had,  in  the  meanwhile,  forgotten  her  father  and  his 
prejudices.  Mr.  Clarendon  had  also  passed  from  her  mind, 
but  the  interview  of  the  lovers  was  doomed  to  be  interrupted. 
Others,  attracted  by  works  of  art,  were  also  drawn  into  the 
same  room,  and  among  them  cousin  Fannie,  who  approached 
her  cousin  and  Wilton  with  a  stately  air,  while  she  said  to  the 
latter, 

"  You  are  my  choice  for  an  escort  to  the  dinner-table." 

"  Ten  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Wilton,  "  but 
this  lady  by  my  side  has  conferred  upon  me  that  honor,  and 
accepted  me  as  her  cavalier.  Had  I  not  been  thus  captivated, 
I  had  supposed  Miss  Fannie  Livingston  entirely  out  of  my 
reach." 

"  A  very  ingenious  escape,"  said  the  elegant,  unruffled 
Fannie.  "  It  was  only  from  benevolence  that  I  sought  you, 
but  am  glad  that  my  sw^eet  coz  is  so  fortunate.  If  you  take 
her  to  dinner,  you  will,  of  course  take  her  under  your  charge. 
1  shall  allow  you  no  release." 

Cousin  Fannie  turned,  while  Cora's  cheek  burned  with 
humiliation.  She  was  then  to  be  considered  "  a  burden  to  bo 
taken  care  of  compassionately  "  among  this  circle  of  fashion- 
able people. 

"  Would  that  the  lease  was  through  life,"  murmured 
Wilton,  while,  with  Cora  on  his  arm,  he  followed  to  the  dining- 
room,  among  the  crowd  of  guests. 

As  they  passed  into  the  dining-room,  Cora  whispered 
to  her  cousin  her  desire  to  see  Mr.  Sidney — her  betrothed. 

"  He  was  out  late  last  night,  ray  love,  and  is  not  up  yet  ;" 
then  with  a  whisper,  she  said,  "  his  habits  are  peculiar,  dear, 
quite  French  ;  he  has  been  much  abroad,  and  consequently  we 
indulge  his  foreign  tastes." 


Isora's    Child.  215 

"  Is  he  ill  ?"  said  Cora. 
.  "  Oh,  no,  my  white  clover,  he  can't  bear  dissipation,  as  well 
as  when  younger."  Cora  made  no  reply,  and  they  passed  on 
to  dinner.  Wilton  and  Cora  were  seated  together,  and 
strange  as  it  may  appear  to  some,  had  they  been  called  upon 
for  an  account  of  the  bill  of  fare,  not  a  dish  of  it  could  have 
been  remembered  by  either  ;  and  although  Wilton  went 
mechanically  through  with  all  the  ceremonies  of  the  occasion, 
he  would  have  preferred  bodily  starvation  behind  the  "  crimson 
curtain,"  to  a  feast  that  the  gods  might  have  envied.  And 
Cora  was  too  near,  much  too  near,  the  sound  of  a  voice 
sweeter  to  her  ear  than  music  e'er  breathed,  to  know  either 
the  succession  of  courses,  or  their  richness.  Excitement  had 
flushed  her  cheek  with  a  shade  more  of  the  rose  than  her 
cousin  thought  becoming  ;  but  then  it  seemed  natural  to  the 
polished  lady  of  society,  that  Cora  should  be  somewhat  embar- 
rassed in  a  circle  so  refined  and  distinguished.  She  almost 
expected  her  to  commit  some  unpardonable  blunder  ;  but  to 
her  amazement  Cora  seemed  quietly  at  home,  and  lacked  none 
of  that  repose  of  manner,  which,  to  her  eye,  made  up  the 
finished  lady.  Yet  she  thought  she  must  be  disconcerted,  else 
why  her  rising  color? — her  neglect  of  the  most  delicious 
viands? — her  want  of  appreciation  of  delicacies  and  luscious 
fruits  that  a  peer  of  England  might  have  envied  for  his  guests  t 
Miss  Fannie  had  watched  her  cousin  narrowly,  with  a  quiet, 
scrutinizing  gaze,  that  seemed  not  to  look,  yet  left  nothing 
unseen.  She  wished  to  see  in  what  lay  the  unexpected  success 
of  the  young  debutante.  Why  had  she  fascinated  the  most 
fastidious  ?  and  more  than  all,  the  rich,  independent,  careless 
young  Wilton,  so  indifferent  as  he  had  ever  been  to  the  most; 
elegant  belles  of  the  season.  Cousin  Fannie,  with  all  her 
conceded  shrewdness  and  acquaintance  with  the  world,  was 
puzzled.  And  we  ask  our  readers  why  ?  Was  there  more 
refinement  in  the  education  of  the  one,  than  of  the  other  ? 
Had  the  beautiful  green  earth,  with  its  flowers,  its  dew- 
gemmed  fields,  its  silvery  brooks,  and  "Heaven-kissing  hills," 
made  less  elevated  the  tone  of  mind  in  the  simple  country 
girl  ? — in  the  tranquilizing  influences  of  such  a  religion  as  the 
birds,  the  sky,  the  glorious  waves  had  taught  her,  was  there 
less  sul)liinity  of  thought,  such  as  carries  the  heart  to 
"  nature's  God,"  inculcated,  than  in  the  exquisite  training 
and  artificial  grace   that  the   world-polished   lady  receives,  in 


216  I  8  o  K  A '  s    Child. 

that  court  whose  goddess  numbers  her  millions  ?  How  many 
glorious  teachings  are  there  to  be  learned  that  the  heart  can 
only  drink  from  this  rich  beautiful  source,  and  how  unfinished 
is  the  most  scholastic-taught  mind,  without  the  reading 
of  that  book  which  unites  the  creature  with  his  great 
Creator. 

Beautiful,  we  acknowledge,  the  elegance,  the  refined  suavity 
of  manner,  that  forbids  the  utterance  of  the  ungentle  word, 
the  commission  of  the  uncourteous  act,  that  makes  all  rough 
edges  smooth  in  this  unharmonious  world  ;  but  let  sincerity, 
charity,  and  true  humility  of  spirit,  like  the  under  current  of 
smooth  waters,  course  harmlessly,  without  treachery  beneath 
— let  not  the  refined  simplicity  of  the  country  girl  be  thought 
ill-bred,  and  deserving  of  well-disguised  contempt  ;  be  not 
hasty,  ye  polished,  aye,  charming  city  belles,  as  with  self-pos- 
sessed elegance  you  sweep  by  the  unassuming  novice  ;  for 
beneath  the  uutasteful,  unfashionable  robe,  the  rustic  cottage 
bonnet,  you  may  find  another  Cora  Livingston. 

The  attention  which  Cora  received,  enhanced  much  the 
respect  of  her  cousin  and  aunt,  and  as  the  former  was  so  soon 
to  be  married,  her  beauty  and  attractions  excited  not  the 
same  envy  that  they  would  otherwise  have  done. 

After  dinner,  Cousin  Fannie  took  a  seat  by  Cora,  and  drew 
her  politely  into  conversation,  which  turned  upon  the  great 
matter  of  present  interest  to  the  former — her  expected  nup- 
tials. 

'*  Allow  me  to  ask  you.  Cousin  Fannie,"  said  Cora,  *'  some- 
thing of  your  intended  tour." 

"  We  shall  travel  south,  and  pass  the  winter  in  New 
Orleans  and  Havana,  and  in  the  spring  go  to  Niagara  and 
the  watering  places — but  not  to  sojourn  at  the  Falls  long — the 
noise  of  water  affects  me  unpleasantly." 

"  Oh,  I  should  be  delighted  to  go  there  !"  said  Cora. 

"  Very  sweet,  dearest,  if  Mr.  Sidney  was  younger  " 

"  Is  he  much  your  senior,  Fannie  ?" 

"  My  dear  love,  men  do  not  grow  old  in  New  York  any 
more  than  the  women;  he  is  as  young,  they  say,  as  he  was  thirty 
years  ago  ;  he  enjoys  his  club  and  suppers,  as  much  as  I  do 
the  opera  and  soirees.  He  never  makes  a  faux  pas  unless 
(Fannie  slis^'htly  laughed)  he  drops  his  cane." 

Cora  looked  up  with  surprise,  which,  her  cousin  thought, 
betrayed  freshness,  that  society  would  probably  amend.     She 


Isoka's    Child.  217 

contrasted  Riifus  Wilton  with  this  imagined  individual,  so  soon 
to  be  the  husband  of  her  elegant  cousin.  Her  countenance 
betrayed  more  than  she  intended.  Fannie  was  not  unobservant, 
but  said  nothing  for  several  minutes  ;  then  exclaimed, 

"  You  look  amazed,  my  coz,  at  my  shocking  heartlessness  ; 
but  I  quite  forgive  you,  you  are  so  naive.  I  suppose  that  you 
now  fancy  my  intended  syosa  to  be  superannuated.  How  he 
would  be  amused  !  No,  no,  dear  ;  he  is  in  excellent  preserva- 
tion. His  hair  I  Byron  could  not  have  idealized  a  hero's 
more  perfect ;  and  his  teeth  are  every  one  a  pearl.  Indeed,  my 
dear,  he  is  unexceptionable.  I  sometimes  laugh  at  poor  Sidney, 
but  I  have  a  high  respect  for  him  ;  we  are  quite  attached.  I 
must  show  you  my  superbe.  trousseau.  He  is  so  liberal  !  *  Bet 
ter  be  an  old  man's  darling  than  a  young  man's  slave.'" 

Cora  wondered  if  it  was  necessary  to  be  either. 

That  the  absent  gentleman,  so  soon  to  be  united  to  the  ele- 
gant belle,  liked  repose,  was  apparent  to  the  company,  who 
curiously  and  anxiously  awaited  his  coming.  He  had  arrived 
recently  from  abroad,  and  had  since  taken  up  his  abode  in  the 
family  of  his  affianced  bride. 

His  delay  somewhat  disturbed  the  composure  of  his  intended 
wife,  though  the  ripple  over  the  serene  surface  of  her  mind  was 
scarcely  discernible.  She,  however,  deemed  it  proper  to  have 
him  reminded  of  the  hour.  Dinner  was  now  over,  and  the  time 
for  dressing  had  arrived.  A  messenger  was  accordingly  sent 
to  the  door  of  Mr.  Sidney's  apartment,  who  informed  him  that 
*'  it  was  late,  and  that  Miss  Livingston  hoped  that  he  was  not 
ill." 

"  Come  in,"  cried  a  grum,  but  sleepy  voice,  within.  ''  Call  my 
valet,  and  bring  me  coffee  and  cigars.  Say  to  Miss  Livingston, 
with  my  respects,  that  I  came  home  at  six  this  morning — took 
an  opium  pill — quietus  took  effect — will  be  soon  ready.  Bring 
me  my  wig — have  slept  too  long — uncork  that  Seidlitz — give 
me  my  watch — an  early  start  this  for  a  man  on  the  road  to 
matrimony." 

The  servant  obeyed  orders,  wliieh  message  satisfied  the 
intended  bride. 

"  Mr.  Sidney  is  very  peculiar,  mamma  !"  said  she.  Mamma 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  retired  to  her  dressing  room. 


10 


218  Isora's    Child. 

The  wedding  party  have  assembled — the  marriage  ceremony 
is   over,   and    the   fashionable   Miss   Livingston    has   already 

merged  into  the  wealthy  Mrs.  Sidney,  of  Place.     And 

truly  had  Cousin  Fannie  implied,  rather  than  said,  that  her 
betrothed  was  well  got  up.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in 
the  presence  of  a  few  guests  ;  when  the  party  afterwards  con- 
gregated to  express  their  congratulations,  and  look  out  more 
especially  for  tiieir  own  enjoyment. 

The  attire  of  the  bride  was  magnificent,  and  her  whole 
appearance  elegant.  She  was  taller  than  her  husbard,  and 
seemed  formed  for  quiet,  counnanding  sway.  The  effect  of  the 
"  quietus  "  seemed  still  over  the  groom,  his  eyes  looking  swollen 
and  red  ;  which  his  bride  regretted,  deeming  his  appearance 
otherwise  unexceptionable. 

But  no  one  attributed  his  flushed  lids  to  excess  of  sensibility, 
and  there  were  few  that  noticed  them  at  all  He  had  consulted 
several  ocuHsts  on  the  watery  appearance  of  his  eyes,  who 
impertinently  attributed  their  increasing  humidity  to  old  age 
which  induced  him  to  despise  the  profession,  calling  the  opera- 
tors all  quacks.  He  knew  of  but  one  remedy,  and  that  was  to 
wear  glasses — near-sighted  ones,  of  course. 

By  the  side  of  the  bride  stood  Cora,  in  a  dress  of  silver  lace, 
ornamented  with  jewelled  butterflies,  which  likewise  glittered 
in  gossamer  beauty  on  one  side  of  her  head.  The  wings  were 
formed  of  silver  web,  fragile  and  beautiful.  Her  dress  was 
delicate  and  pure,  like  the  beauty  it  adorned. 

A  fashionable  beau  stood  as  groomsman  by  her  side.  Cora 
attracted  universal  admiration.  "  Who  is  that  lovely  crea- 
ture ?"  was  the  general  murmur,  as  she  glided  tlirough  the 
crowded  saloon.  "  She  has  the  wings  of  a  Peri,"  said  another 
as  she  floated  in  the  dance  ;  but  Rufus  Wilton's  admiration 
was  silent. 

Admirers  came  swarming  around  her ;  while  to  other 
inquiries  was  added,  aside,  "  Is  she  rich  as  well  as  beautiful  ?" 

"  If  she  is  wealthy,  Rufus  Wilton  is  poor,"  was  the  reply. 
Her  name  was  thus  associated  with  his  by  strangers,  who  knew 
naught  of  their  love,  but  more  of  the  lawsuit  of  their  parents. 

•'  Mr.  Clarendon  is  late  this  evening,"  said  Mrs.  Livingston  to 
a  guest  near  her.  "  His  absence  is  as  much  felt,  as  his  presence 
is  enjoyed."  But  she  soon  added,  "  Ah  !  there  he  is,  with 
Madame  Delano  !     Do  you  think  her  handsome,  Mrs.  Prig  ?" 

"  Quite  the  reverse,"  replied  the  lady,  a  short,  fat  woman, 


219 

with  elevated  eyebrows,  and  a  nose  and  mouth  wliich  disclaimed 
companionship  ;  one  being  aspiring,  and  the  other  drawn  down 
at  the  corners.  "  Her  French  gibberish,"  she  continued,  "  is 
intolerable.  She  seems  irresistible  to  the  gentlemen,  however. 
Even  Mr.  Prig,  who  hasnn't  danced  these  ten  years,  was  actu- 
ally deluded  into  a  gallopade  with  her  ladyship  last  night  ;  she 
wheedled  him,  as  she  does  the  rest  of  the  men,  with  her  coquet- 
tish airs.  I  told  him  that  he  might  be  in  a  more  dignitied 
position  ;  but  he  seemed  so  careless  about  my  advice,  that  I 
thought  I  shouldn't  waste  my  breath  in  the  argument.  Ha  ! 
ha  !  perhaps  he  thinks  I'm  jealous." 

"  Why  don't  you  flirt  with  the  Captain  ?  he  does  not  seem 
to  harmonize  with  all  his  wife's  notions." 

"  Harmonize  with  a  magpie  !  She  can't  pnrJez-vous  over 
me.  Well,  the  strongest-minded  men  will  have  their  weak- 
nesses, but  I  won't  uphold  any  one,  if  I  censure  my  husband, 
in  encouraging  flirts.  Why,  this  woman  has  no  more  stability 
than  a  bottle  of  her  French  essence." 

**  A  chance,  then,  of  her  evaporating,  is  there  not,  Mrs. 
Prig?" 

''She's  inflated  enough  to  soar,  but  the  balloon  must  be 
well-manned  that  she  sails  in." 

"  Does  the  Alderman  admire  her  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  he  likes  to  look  at  her  as  one  does  at  a  whiz- 
zing fire  rocket.  It  is  a  relief  to  a  rational  mind  to  turn  from 
her  to  Miss  Dumpsey.  What  a  wife  she  would  make  a  retired 
gentleman  that  could  appreciate  her.  The  Dumpsey  family 
were  always  respectable,  and  Nancy  was  always  tidy.  There 
must  be  some  radical  defect  in  the  men  as  well  as  in  these 
Delilah  women.  I  wonder  where  Mr.  Prig  is  ;  but  it's  of  no 
use  for  me  to  watch  him." 

Mrs.  Prig  stretched  her  neck,  as  well  as  its  length  would 
admit,  behind  Mrs.  Livingston,  but  drew  it  in  again. 

"  You  are  ceremonious  this  evening,"  said  the  hostess  to 
Madame  Delano,  as  she  approached  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon, to  greet  her. 

"  A  soiree  at  Madame  L.'s — premier  engagement,^'  lisped  the 
graceful  beauty. 

"Shall  we  see  Captain  Delano,  to-night  ?"  said  Mrs.  Living- 
ston politely,  while  she  turned  her  eyes  in  a  sideway  glance  to 
Mrs.  Prig. 

"  Ah!  noil,  le  pauvre  Capilaine  !  il  est  tres  fatigitey 


220  Isoka's    Child. 

After  a  voluble  chat  respecting  the  bride  and  her  newly 
made  husband,  Madame  Delano  turned  from  Mrs.  Livingston 
to  Mr.  Clarendon,  and  with  some  low  whisper,  drew  forth  the 
.  following  reply. 

''  Partons  avec  vousy  The  words  w^re  accompanied  with  a 
look  which  occasioned  extra  fan-fluttering. 

''  Le  pauvre  Cajpitaine  P  said  Mrs.  Prig  as  she  turned,  "I 
should  think  he'd  be  tres  fatigue  with  such  a  syllabub  of  a 
wife." 

"  She  dresses  well,"  said  Mrs.  Livingston,  who  was  too  well- 
bred  to  censure  her  guests,  not  objecting  to  listening  to  the 
criticisms  of  others. 

"  Yes,  as  if  we  were  all  admirers  of  undraped  Yenuses  ;  well, 
she  has  a  virtuoso  in  Clarendon,  /  like  simplicity  in  dress, 
and  enough  of  it.     He  admires,  of  course,  objets  de  vertu." 

"  Ah  !  Mrs.  Prig,  you  are  too  satirical,"  said  Mrs.  Living- 
ston, playfully.  "  Society  must  have  its  varieties  ;  and  she, 
you  know,  has  been  recently  abroad,  to  '  chere  ParisJ  " 

''Well,  I  don't  mean  to  be  severe,  Mrs.  Livingston,  but 
what  is  to  become  of  the  morals  of  our  country  women,  when  a 
scent  bag  like  this  is  to  swallow" 

"  The  whole  common  council,"  said  Mrs.  Livingston,  laughing. 

"  Xo,  not  that — I'm  not  jealous — not  a  bit.  Do  look  !" 
Mrs.  Prig  continued,  with  an  affected  smile,  "my  husband 
is  giving  my  first  hyacinths  to  Frenchy  !  How  Miss  Dumpsey 
is  neglected  by  the  gentlemen — she's  sterling — nothing  flimsy 
about  her."  The  alderman  was  now  within  reach  of  his  anxious 
wife.  With  an  affectionate  grasp  of  his  arm,  she  nervously 
exclaimed  in  an  undertone  : — "  Perhaps  you'd  better  go  to  the 
green-house  another  time  for  hyacinths — I  don't  raise  bulbs,  I 
can  tell  you,  for  women  of  such  character.  Now  if  you  wish 
to  please  me,  you  will  attend  some  to  Nancy  Dumpsey — she's 
a  cousin,  too,  of  my  uncle's  first  wife.  I  could  honestly  deed 
her  to  you,  soul  and  body,  for  a  mother  to  my  children,  after  I 
am  dead  and  gone,  and  that  will  soon  be,"  Mrs.  Prig  drew 
now  down  her  mouth  corners,  still  further  from  her  upward  nose, 
"  if  you  go  on  as  you  now  do." 

"  I  will  certainly  entertain  Miss  Dumpsey  on  your  account," 
said  the  alderman,  pulling  down  his  waistcoat.  "  Shall  I  also," 
he  continued,  shaking  his  rubicund  visage  and  portly  figure, 
"  inform  her  of  the  honor  you  intend  her  ?" 

"  You'd  better  wait  perhaps  till  you  are  really  bereft.     If  I 


Isora's    Child  221 

wasn't  in  a  party,  I'd  give  you  a  piece  of  my  mind,  but  one  has 
to  play  hypocrite  here." 

This  tete-a-tete  was  carried  on  in  a  subdued,  but  energetic 
undertone  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  and  an  assumed  obsequiousness 
on  the  part  of  the  gentleman,  whose  eyes  seemed  wandering  for 
an  opening  in  the  door-way. 

The  approach  of  a  lady  to  the  lounge  where  the  conjugal 
pair  sat,  terminated  the  conversation  between  the  alderman  and 
his  wife. 

"I  don't  like  such  devotion  to  one's  wife  in  company,"  said 
she  playfully.  "Come,  Mr.  Prig,  there  is  a  stranger  here,  a 
very  lovely  woman  that  I  wish  you  to  entertain  awhile — so 
much  for  a  reputation  for  agreeability," 

"  Who  is  the  lady  ?"  said  Mrs.  Prig,  trying  to  look  amiable. 

"A  widow,  from  Philadelphia,  I  believe.     A  Mrs. , Linden." 

"That  lady  in  the  corner,  with  a  strait  nose?  I  don't 
approve  of  widows.  She  is  talking  now  to  young  Wilton,  court- 
ing him  up,  I  dare  say — old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  I'll  be 
bound.     It's  another  thing,  when  widows  are  widows  '  indeed, 


IV 


"  Mrs.  Linden  is  quite  retiring  and  certainly  a  harmless 
acquaintance,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  I  hope  you  haven't  thought  that  1  consider  her  dan- 
gerous," said  the  alderman,  good  naturedly. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  do,"  interposed  Mrs,  Prig  ;  "  and  I 
don't  suppose  she  is.  I  never  heard  of  her,  anyway.  Is  her 
hair  curled  ?" 

"  No — she  wears  a  cap." 

"  Widow's  caps  1  All  a  farce,  nothing  but  coquetry  about 
them  ;  and  as  for  curls,  they  are  an  abomination.  I  see 
nothing  to  call  them  out  of  retirement,  unless  they  want  the 
fresh  air,  and  then  there  are  side  streets  enough.  To  see  the 
veils  on  Broadway,  one  would  think  there  was  a  funeral  about 
one  o'clock.  But  I  don't  mean  to  be  severe,  I  know  that 
there  are  those  that  keep  sober  at  home,  not  looking  out  for 
another  chance.  Well,  Mrs.  lioss,  I  am  not  going  to  try  to 
keep  the  alderman  from  any  kind  of  a  trap.  I  have  done 
that  long  ago.     Go,  if  you  wish  to,  and  I  suppose  yon  do." 

Mrs.  Ross  and  the  alderman  disappeared,  when  Mrs.  Prig 
accosted  Miss  Ironsides  with,  "  How  comes  on  the  Women? 
Rights  Convention  ?  I  do  hope  that  you  will  come  out  strong 
ou  the  sufferings  of  our  sex.  This  being  put  down,  and  not 
allowed  a  voice  in  any  assembly,  is  more  than  ought  to  be 


222  Isoea's    Child. 

endured.  I  only  wish  the  men  had  to  take  care  of  babies  one 
month,  and  see  if  they'd  feel  so  fine  out  in  company.  Do  you 
know  that  Mrs.  Linden  ?  How  quakerfied  she  looks  ! 
Affectation  of  simplicity.  I  thought  it  was  expected  that 
people  would  dress  some  at  weddings. 

"  I  don't  know  her,"  said  Miss  Ironsides.  "  Intellectual 
faculties  small,  I  observe — no  preponderance  of  self-esteem — 
costume  effeminate,"  she  now  pulled  up  her  dickey,  **  still  not 
incapable,  if  roused,  to  trample  upon  the  oppressor  that  insults 
by  defiance  of  woman's  rights,  the  sex  to  which  she  belongs. 
May  God  strengthen  our  defenders,  and  lengthen  the  days  of 
our  strong-minded  sisterhood." 

"And  lengthen  their  petticoats,"  added  Mrs.  Prig.  "If  I 
wasn't  short,  and  rather  en  bon  j)oiiitish,  I  would  try  pants;  but 
all  figures  don't  become  them,  besides,  I  don't  approve  of  two 
pair  in  a  family.  Prig  and  I  quarrel  enough  now  ;  but  I  do 
think  that  woman's  voice  should,  on  no  public  or  private 
occasion,  ever  be  checked.  I  always  read  all  I  see  on  '  Female 
Influence,'  and  if  ever  I  feel  like  laying  the  oppressor  low,  it 
is  when  election  day  comes,  and  Prig  gets  a  ticket  sent  him, 
with  all  the  managers'  names.  All  I  hear  about  what  he's 
seen  at  the  polls,  comes  through  a  windpipe  of  ale." 

"The  day  may  come,"  said  Miss  Ironsides,  with  solemnity, 
"when  these  polls  of  chicanery,  iniquity  and  ignominy,  will 
become  poles  of  liberty,  where  the  flag  of  woman  will  wave 
triumphant  ;  and  when,  on  pedestals  of  bronze,  the  names  of 
female  politicians  shall  shine  in  letters  of  brass,  commemorat- 
ing the  heroism  of  their  brave  aspirants  for  unshackled  freedom. 
Like  the  downfall  of  Robespierre,  the  tyrant  7nan,  will  be 
chained  " 

"  It  wasn't  Robert  Spear,  Miss  Ironsides,  that  was  chained," 
interposed  Mrs.  Prig,  "  it  was  the  devil  that  was  to  be  bound 
a  thousand  years;  that  may  mean  man  typically,  but  I  didn't 
mean  to  interrupt  you,  I  seldom  lecture  any  one  but  Prig — go 
on." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Miss  Ironsides,  with  dignity,  who  was 
averse  to  be-ng  "  put  out,"  and  who  had  a  growing  contempt 
for  the  "  intellect "  of  her  companion,  since  she  turned  the  French 
tyrant  into  a  common  individual.  "  But  I  must  say,  Mrs. 
Prig,  that  I  could,  with  a  willing  mind,  a  strong  heart,  and 
with  gigantic  strides,  like  a  female  Napoleon,  walk  into  the 
courts  of  our  immoral  halls  of  legislation,  and  with  a  coup  d'  etat 


Isora's    Child.  223 

that  should  awaken  the  dying  energies  of  our  too  feeble  sex, 
fetter  the  male  hydras  that  bar  us  from  free  admission  into 
our  natural  sphere  of  action,  and,  if  necessarj'-,  imprison  them, 
while  in  our  own  hands,  we  take  the  reins  of  government. 
My  friend,  we  are  now  sleeping,  but  the  day  will  come  when 
the  daughters  of  America  will  awake  in  a  body  to  a  sense  of 
their  wrongs." 

"If  I  was  as  tall  as  you,"  said  Mrs.  Prig,  wlio  had  listened 
like  one  overpowered,  "  I  should  certainly  preach." 

Miss  Ironsides  acknowledged  the  compliment,  with  an 
oppressed  look,  upon  which  Mrs.  Prig  offered  her  her  fan, 
which  was  declined,  Miss  Ironsides  having  a  small  cane  attach- 
ed to  her  wrist,  as  an  emblem  of  her  masculine  aspirations. 
Mrs.  Prig  wondered  if  Mr.  Prig  would  stand  more  in  fear 
of  her  if  she  carried  one. 

At  that  moment,  the  attention  of  the  lady  was  attracted 
towards  Miss  Sally  Sapp,  who  was  gallanted  by  Uncle  Peter 
to  the  party. 

"  That  must  be  the  heiress  from  Sapp  Dingle,"  rattled  Mrs. 
Prig.  "I  never  look  at  city  fashionables  in  compau}^;  but 
these  foreign  importations  take  my  eye — do  see  her,  covered 
with  fire-flies  !  as  I  live,  they  are  live  bugs  !  with  lightning  eyes  I 
how  she  glitters  !  she's  a  real  popinjay — they  say  she  keeps  par- 
rots and  monkeys.  Do  see  Uncle  Peter  Wilton  making  his 
gyrations  round  her  !  she's  seated  now,  lazy,  I'll  warrant — it 
can't  be  that  the  old  bachelor  would  like  to  catch  my  lady-bug. 
Uncle  Peter  is  a  clever  man;  1  hope  he  won't  be  taken  in  by 
such  fandangoes.'^ 

"  She  will  avail  little,  I  should  think,  in  the  way  of  enno- 
bling her  sex,"  replied  Miss  Ironsides.  "  What  are  jewels 
when  even  toads  are  said  to  wear  them  !  When  will  our  sex 
learn  the  value  of  7ni)id  V  Overcome  with  feeling,  Miss  Iron- 
sides arranged  her  sleeve  buttons,  and  joined  a  male  coterie  of 
which  she  was  one  of  the  committee,  to  "reform  abuses," 
leaving  Mrs.  Prig  to  look  up  other  company. 

In  the  meanwhile,  in  a  small  room  adjoining  the  saloon,  filled 
with  works  of  art,  luxurious  seats,  and  beautiful  flowers,  sat 
Mr.  Clarendon  and  Madame  Delano.  He  had  plucked  from 
the  shrubs  around  him  a  l)Ouquet,  and  was  now  leaning  towards 
his  comi)anion,  who  languished  on  a  lounge,  while  he  poetized 
about  his  offering,  comparing  her  to  the  most  beautiful. 

The  charms  so  lavishly  displayed  were  flatteringly  extolled 


224  Isora's    Child. 

in  her  own  alluring  French,  severely  as  even  his  liberal  taste 
condemned  the  garish  display.  They  sat  opposite  a  mirror  in 
which  they  were  reflected  in  the  outer  room,  where  Wilton  and 
Cora  stood.  Mr.  Clarendon  had  not  heard  of  Cora's  visit  in 
town,  having  himself  just  returned,  and  since  his  entrance, 
been  constantly  devoted  to  the  French  belle. 

With  a  languid  smile  she  inquired  "If  he  had  seen  the 
young  bridesmaid  that  all  were  admiring." 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon.  "  I  must  be  avariciovis 
indeed  to  desire  to  look  further.  Is  she  a  Circassian  maiden, 
or  an  houri  of  fabled  land,  that  I  should  wander  from  my 
present  orbit  ?" 

Madame  was  not  lacking  in  words  for  a  graceful,  coquettish 
reply,  which  ended  in  comparing  her  companion  to  Sweden- 
borg,  whom,  she  said,  "  believed  in  the  presence  of  angels 
about  him." 

"  But  I  see  but  one,''^  was  the  gallant  reply. 

"  Vous  etes  hien  flatteur,'''  answered  the  flattered  beauty. 
"  Ah  I  Monsieur,  you  make  courtier  in  la  belle  France — this 
country — shocking  domestique.  Le  Capitaine  est  horribkment 
AmericainP 

"  Teach  him,"  said  Clarendon,  "  that  Vamnur  sourit  a  la 
terre,''^  while  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  pretty  arm  near  him. 

"  Ah,  prenez  garde  .'"  cried  the  latter,  with  affected  timidity, 
giving  Mr.  Clarendon  a  playful  tap  of  her  fan,  while  she  veiled 
her  brilliant  eyes  with  her  hand. 

The  crowd  was  now  proceeding  to  the  supper-room.  The 
buzz  of  the  movhig  throng  deafened  all  private  communica- 
tions which  were  undisturbed  by  observation,  if  the  mutual 
devotion  of  Mr.  Clarendon  and  Madame  Delano  had  not  passed 
unheeded  by  Cora  and  Wilton. 

The  former  was  unmindful  of  the  eyes  that  had  witnessed 
the  smiles  of  the  lady,  and  his  seeming  adoration  of  the  noted 
belle.  Cora  had  been  surrounded  during  the  evening  by 
admirers,  but  Wilton's  jealous  eye  soon  discovered  that  her 
wandering  look  was  vague  and  dreamy,  until  it  rested  timidly 
on  his  own.  Mr.  Clarendon  was  apparently,  to  the  careless 
observer,  showing  some  prints  to  his  companion.  The  pictures 
lay  open  before  him  ;  his  attention  was  not  directed  to  them, 
but  fell,  with  obsequious  admiration,  upon  her  who  held  them. 
Neither  seemed  wearied  of  their  retirement.  Music  and  danc- 
ing made  the  scene  in  the  outer  rooms  gay,  but  Mr.  Claren- 


Isora's    Child.  225 

don's  heart  and  soul  seemed  fixed  upon  the  coquette  whose 
smiles  he  courted,  and  whose  eyes  flashed  with  alternate  fire 
and  softness,  as  she  listened  to  his  conversation. 

Cora  was  startled,  but  not  pained.  She  thought  that  he 
had  sought  some  new  object  of  preference,  and  a  weight  was 
lifted  from  her  mind.  Her  spirits  rose  with  the  idea,  and  she 
soon  remarked  to  AVilton  "  that  his  own  observation  could 
furnish  a  reply  to  some  questions  that  he  had  asked  her — that 
lie  need  only  look  for  an  answer  in  the  devotion  of  the  pair  in 
the  ante-room." 

"That  is  a  married  lady,  Cora,  with  Mr.  Clarendon,"  said 
Wilton. 

"  Ah  !  some  relative,  perhaps,"  answered  Cora,  as  she  turned 
away,  and  with  Wiltou  proceeded  towards  the  supper-room. 

She  had  not  been  long  at  the  refreshment  table  before  Mr. 
Clarendon  appeared,  having  resigned  his  companion  to  another. 
Looking  for  the  first  time  about  him,  he  caught  a  view  of  Cora 
in  her  beautiful  array.  He  was  both  delighted  and  chagrined. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  ravished  with  her  exceeding  loveliness, 
and  watched  the  expression  of  her  face,  and  noticed  that  upon 
Wilton  fell  her  sweetest,  most  winning  smiles.  She  had  been 
almost  constantly  in  his  thoughts,  and  he  would  not  have 
exchanged  one  look  from  her  pure  soul-lit  eyes  for  the  love  of 
a  score  of  heartless  married  flirts. 

To  amuse  an  idle  hour  he  might  dally  in  their  frivolous 
society,  but  contrasted  with  that  of  Cora,  void  and  vain  seemed 
the  recent  moments  which  he  had  passed  in  the  conservatory. 

With  inexpressible  annoyance  he  witnessed  the  devotion  she 
received  from  Wilton. 

Without  delay,  he  hastened  towards  her,  expressing  his 
delight  and  surprise  to  see  her  in  town — "  I  came  so  late,"  he 
said,  "  that  I  have  not  before  seen  you — and  are  you  the 
bridesmaid  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  much  ?  How  could  you 
let  me  remain  in  ignorance  of  your  presence  so  long  ? — My 
dear  Cora,  I  have  much  to  say  to  you — take  my  arm,  Mr. 
Wilton  will  certainly  excuse  you." 

Wilton  bowed  coldly,  and  still  remained  by  the  side  of 
Cora,  and  as  the  latter  politely  declined  his  invitation,  Mr. 
Clarendon  was  forced  to  abandon  the  hope  of  a  private  interview, 
but  not  long.  Mr.  Wilton  was  accosted  by  a  lady,  who  pro- 
posed to  present  him  to  one  of  his  old  friends,  who  wished  to 
speak  with  him.     He  accordingly  apologized  to  Cora,  and  left 

10* 


226  Is  oka's    Child. 

her  reluctantly,  when  Mr.  Clarendon  soon  joined  her.  In  a 
retired  corner,  sea|bd  by  a  sofa  table,  he  found  his  former 
valuable  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Liuden  ;  one  who  had  often 
crossed  his  path,  when  a  boy,  and  during  his  college  life  had 
60u,ght  him  out  among  the  students,  to  bestow  upon  him 
such  kindnesses  as  he  could  never  forget.  One  oc(jasion,  dur- 
ing a  severe  illness,  he  never  ceased  to  remember  Vith  grati- 
tude ;  how  she  had  watched  day  and  night  by  his  bed-side, 
bestowing  upon  him  all  those  tender  attentions  so  peculiarly 
grateful  to  the  sick,  lonely,  and  homeless  student  ; — she  had 
told  him,  too,  that  she  had  known  his  mother  as  a  child,  and 
in  her  girlhood,  and  evinced  much  knowledge  of  her  after 
history,  which  enhanced  his  interest  in  his  once  devoted 
friend. 

Why  the  governess  and  friend  of  Flora  Islington  should  be 
at  this  gay  wedding,  among  the  fashionable  and  worldly,  we 
must  now  explain.  She  had  also  stood  in  the  same  relation  to 
jFannie  Livingston,  as  to  Flora,  and  the  promise  the  pupil 
then  made  to  her  favorite  instructress,  was  fulfilled,  and  an 
invitation  was  sent  her  to  be  present  at  her  bridal  ;  but  why 
a  strong  motive  urged  her  to  accept  it,  she  did  not  reveal. 
Flora  assisted  her  to  array  herself  in  her  deep  black  dress, 
relieved  only  by  a  fold  of  tulle  lace  about  her  throat,  and 
adjusted  the  simple  lace  cap  over  her  still  beautiful  hair,  and 
asked  her  no  question.  Her  friend  said  that  she  was  going  to 
a  wedding,  and  Flora  performed  her  task,  somewhat  paler,  but 
silently. 

Mrs.  Linden  was  not  one  to  prepossess  strangers.  Her 
manners  were  cold,  almost  haughty.  Few  ever  awoke  a  smile 
on  her  countenance  ;  but  now,  as  Rufus  Wilton  approached 
her,  one  of  angelic  sweetness  played  about  her  mouth.  She 
had  still  much  beauty,  but  was  colorless  as  marble — the  faint 
red  on  her  lip,  mostly  denoting  the  hue  of  health,  though  her 
complexion  was  as  purely  white  as  in  her  girlhood.  Her 
features  were  classical,  her  face  oval,  and  the  hair  visible 
beneath  her  Mary  Stuart  cap,  yet  unsilvered,  of  a  dark  ches- 
nut  brown.  Her  form  was  tall  and  full,  and  the  expression 
of  mingled  haughtiness,  and  sadness,  which  characterized  her 
appearance,  while  it  repelled,  still  awoke  an  interest  in  the 
beholder. 

As  Wilton  approached  her,  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and 
called  him  to  a  seat  near  her.     Her  eyes  swam  with  earnest 


Isora's    Guild.  227 

feeling,  and  a  faint,  very  faint  color  cani^  for  a  moment  and 
settled  upon  her  cheek,  as  she  spoke.        -•., 

"We  have  not  met,"  said  she,  ''since  yon  have  returned 
from  Europe,  but  you  have  not  forgotten  your  old  college  and 
boyliood  friend." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  spoke. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Wilton,  "  I  have  often,  very  often  thought 
of  you,  and  had  I  known  where  you  were,  while  I  was  in 
Europe,  I  should  have  written  to  you.  You  have  been  always 
so  good  to  me,  and  it  seems  sometimes  that  you  have  a  myste- 
rious influence  over  my  fate.  I  feel  that  I  owe  my  life  to  you; 
who  else  would  have  nursed  me  wiien  I  was  so  ill  in  my 
college  days.  Where  have  you  been  since  ? — and  where  do 
you  now  live  !" 

"  I  have  sought  the  occupation  of  governess  for  the  past 
three  years,  but  have  of  late  lived  in  an  obscure  street  in  this 
city,  where,  with  one  of  my  old  pupils,  I  lead  a  secluded  life. 
I  yesterday  called  upon  my  old  friend  Fannie,  and  she  invited 
me  here  to-night.  Rufus,  need  1  tell  you,  that  you  were  the 
magnet.  I  came  here  to  meet  you.  I  wished  to  give  you  my 
address.  You  will  come  and  see  me."  The  rare  smile  so 
inexpressibly  sweet,  eflecting  so  peculiar  a  change,  now  passed 
over  her  face. 

Young  Wilton  felt  little  inclined  to  resist  the  persuasive 
invitation.  Since  his  first  and  early  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Linden,  he  had  felt  for  her  a  peculiar  and  tender  friend- 
ship. 

When  a  boy  at  school,  the  beautiful  young  widow,  with  her 
mournful  dress,  and  pale,  sad  face,  had  ever  excited  his  inte- 
rest, and  her  invitations  to  visit  her  on  holidays  and  at  leisure 
hours  were  always  accepted.  He  even  then  loved  to  feel  her 
soft,  white  fingers  in  his  hair,  and  to  have  her  gently  arrange 
his  collar  or  cambric  frill,  and  never  denied  her  the  parting 
kiss  she  seemed  to  crave — and  when  in  college,  he  again  met 
her,  paler  and  more  subdued  than  of  old,  she  was  still  wel- 
come to  his  sight  ;  for  like  a  mother,  or  an  older  sister,  she 
seemed  ever  awake  to  his  personal  comfort,  and  often  told  him 
that  she  could  not  do  too  much  for  the  child  of  his  mother. 
Rosa  Neville,  she  said,  she  had  known  and  loved  as  well  as 
her  own  soul  ;  and  she  had  vowed  that  her  child  should  be 
to  her  dear  as  one  of  her  own,  had  she  been  blessed  with  a 
son. 


228  Isora's    Child. 

"  Will  jou  go  with  me  to  the  supper-room,"  said  Wilton, 
offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Linden.  "  You  have  been  in  the 
shade  all  the  evening.  Why  does  this  quiet  corner  fascinate 
you  ?" 

"I  have  seen  the  bride,"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  "and  you,  my 
dear  Rufus.  You  cannot  imagine  the  zest  for  enjoyment 
past,  cannot  fancy  that  the  murmur  of  this  gay  throng 
makes  me  think  of  the  wild  music  of  the  sea — dashing  ihspir- 
ing  melody  to  one  who  watches  its  beautiful  surges  from  a 
sunny  harbor — but  like  the  roar  of  turbulent  waves  to  the 
shipwrecked.  So  it  come  to  one  who  finds  no  peace  in  its  tumult. 
Once  it  had  its  fascinations,  and  I  watched  the  crowd  with 
some  amusement  I  see  that  one  lovely  creature  has  touched 
your  heart,  Rufus." 

"  Are  you  so  discerning  ?  You  approve  of  my  taste,  J 
trust." 

"Yes,  Rufus,  I  admire  her  ;  but  there  are  many  beautiful 
roses  in  one  garden,  and  is  it  not  folly  for  all  to  seek  to  wear 
the  same  ?" 

"  Look  at  her  now,"  continued  Wilton,  enthusiastically. 
'  You,  of  course,  know  her  name.  Is  it  mere  physical  beauty 
that  charms  one  in  Cora  Livingston  ?  It  seems  to  me  some- 
tning  beyond  that.  Have  you  never,  in  looking  at  a  star,  felt 
that  its  sparkUng  brilliancy  constituted  no  part  of  the  attrac- 
tion which  made  you  wonder  and  gaze  with  intensity  into  its 
radiance  ? — but  that  something  beyond  that  entranced  you — 
the  sublimity  of  the  wonderful  creation  that  seemed  to  give  it 
effulgence.  So,  my  dear  friend,  does  this  sweet  girl  inspire 
me.  It  is  her  spirit  shining  through,  that  magnetizes 
me.'' 

"  Rufus,  guard  your  heart,  steel  it  until  you  are  sure  hers 
wears  no  other  impress.  Rumor  assigns  her  to  another  ;  he  is 
now  with  her." 

"Do  you  know  him,  Mrs.  Linden  ?"  said  Wilton;  "Mr. 
Clarendon  ?" 

"  Yes,  Rufus  ;  and  I  implore  you  not  to  tread  in  his  path, 
unless  you  are  sure  of  winning — if  so,  wrest  from  him  your 
own." 

"Is  he  so  powerful,"  said  Wilton,  deridingly,  " that  one 
should  fear  him  as  a  rival  V^ 

"  A  man  without  principle,  without  conscience,  without  honor, 
is  always  to  be  feared.*' 


Isoea's    Child.  229 

"  You  are  a  woman — you  have  watched  him  with  Cora.  Do 
you  think  he  loves  her  ?" 

"  No  ;  there  is  but  one  being  that  he  loves." 

"  Who  is  that  ?" 

"  Himself.  Ambition  is  his  ruling  passion,  and  worldly  pride 
feeds  it,  and  goads  him  on  to  any  soulless  pursuit.  I  do  not 
deny  his  susceptibility  to  woman's  charms  ;  but  he  can  nurse  a 
secret  passion  for  one,  and  feign,  aye,  almost  make  himself 
believe,  he  loves  another.  What  to  him  is  the  sacrifice  of  a 
woman's  heart  ?  What  does  he  know  of  its  whole-souled  truth 
and  tenderness  ?  He  values  it  not,  excepting  as  the  tenement 
where  he  lies  enshrined — an  idol  and  a  god.  Her  beauty  he 
would  appropriate,  possess  ;  but  her  heart,  ruthlessly  crush." 

"  You  speak  feelingly,  Mrs.  Linden,  and  judge  him  more 
harshly  than  I  could  have  done." 

"  I  would  not  judge  harshly,  but  my  nature  cannot  nourish 
a  tame  sentimeni." 

"  This  rumor  is  absurd — he  is  too  old  for  the  supposition." 
As  Wilton  spoke,  his  eyes  followed  Cora  and  Mr.  Clarendon, 
with  no  easy  sensations. 

'*  How  long  do  you  remain  in  town  ?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Linden. 

"  Until  spring,"  said  he.  "  The  country  is  dull  now,  and  you 
know  that  I  have  little  to  call  me  home.  How  1  envy  those 
who  have  sisters  !  I  dare  not  dwell  on  the  loss  of  a  mother. 
Oh  !  my  dear  friend,  that  you  knew  her,  once  existed  in  her 
presence,  is  to  me  inexpressibly  consoling." 

Mrs.  Linden's  eyes  moistened  :  she  did  not  continue  the  sub- 
ject, but  spoke  of  some  visits  which  she  had  that  day  made  to 
some  poor  families  known  to  them  both. 

"  How  little  you  are  known  by  those  who  are  not  intimately 
acquainted  with  you,  my  dear  friend  !  You,  who  are  called  so 
cold  and  haughty,  to  spend  so  much  of  your  time  in  the  abodes 
of  the  poor  and  suffering  !" 

"Why  should  I  not?  I  am  retired  from  the  bustle  and 
fever  of  the  world  ;  sorrow  has  deprived  me  of  all  relish  for  its 
enjoyments  ;  yet  I  have  a  stimulus  for  which  to  live."  The 
Soft,  serene  smile  now  passed  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Linden,  and 
resolution,  almost  scorn,  sat  on  her  brow. 

Mrs.  Linden  was  deeply  interesting  to  Rufus  Wilton  ;  he 
lingered  long,  when  with  her,  in  rapt  attention  to  her  conver- 
fiution.     Her  singularity  was  impressive  to  one  to  whom  soo 


230  Isoka's    Child. 

opened  her  heart ;  but  to  the  stranger  who  studied  her  phy- 
siognom}^  she  was  like  a  marble  statue,  seen  by  the  grey  of 
evening.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and  flashing,  when  awakened  by 
feeling,  which,  contrasted  with  her  pale  features,  gave  spiritu- 
ality to  her  expression. 

Sometimes,  her  colorless  face  impressed  him  with  the  idea 
that  she  was  ill.     He  now  inquired  "  if  she  was  indisposed." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  she  said.  The  scornful  look  disappeared, 
and  a  sweet  smile  for  an  instant  brightened  her  face.  It  came 
and  went  like  lightning  over  a  dark  sky. 

*' You  cannot  imagine,"  said  she,  "  that  my  bloom  was  once 
as  rich  as  that  of  the  young  beauty  we  discussed — that  my 
laugh  and  tones  were  gaiety  itself.  Morning,  Rufus,  has  faded 
with  me  into  night  ;  but  I  feel  that  that  night  is  not  endless. 
There  is  a  dawn  for  me,  and  that  day  will  break  in  this  world. 
There  is  a  God  of  justice  as  well  as  of  mercy.  Ah  !  my  dear 
Rufus,  I  bewilder  you.  It  is  enough  for  you  to  know  that  I 
have  been  wronged.  We  have  talked  a  long  time,  and  1  fear 
that  I  have  saddened  you.  My  home  shall  not  so  affect  3^ou  ; 
it  shall  be  made  cheerful  for  you.     Now,  good  night." 

She  pressed  the  hand  of  Wilton,  and  passed  suddenly  away. 
He  remained  long  in  the  retired  seat  where  she  left  him — he 
longed  to  follow  her.  She  was  as  interesting  as  mysterious  to 
him.  He  forgot  Cora,  and  saw  nothing  but  the  dark,  loving 
eyes  that  had  lingered  so  intently  upon  his  own — the  fascina- 
tion that  ever  left,  in  its  absence,  its  holy,  purifying  spell.  He 
felt,  as  he  had  sometimes  done  when  beneath  a  midnight  sky, 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  beauty,  sublimity,  and  mystery. 

Mr.  Clarendon,  during  this  interview,  had  been  devoting 
himself  to  Cora.  He  admired  her  sim])licity,  her  real,  or 
assumed  dignity,  and  watched  jealously  the  admiration  she 
excited.  In  the  same  breath,  he  expressed  his  happiness  to  see 
her  in  town,  and  then  reproached  her  for  leaving  her  country 
home,  where,  he  said,  "  the  violets  kept  fresh,  and  wild  flowers 
their  dew." 

'*  Your  father,"  he  continued,  "  would  give  your  old  grandam's 
picture  to  see  you  to-night ;  he  would  say  you  show  your  blood, 
in  spite  of  maiden  blushes.  But  I  would  as  soon  trust  a 
diamond  among  thieves.  What  do  you  think  of  your  cousin's 
marriage  ?" 

"Oh  !  I  trust  she  will  be  happy,"  said  Cora.  "I  am  no 
judge  of  her  prospects.     She  is  always  so  serene,  that  I  cannot 


Isoka's    Child.  231 

imagine  her  otherwise.  She  has  lived  in  luxury,  and  I  suppose 
wealth  is  essential  to  her  liappiness." 

"  What  woiild  you  think,  Cora,  of  Mr.  Sidney  for  a  hus- 
band r 

"  Wiiat  a  question,  Mr.  Clarendon  !"  said  Cora,  half-smiling. 
"  You  are  trying  to  make  me  commit  myself  on  a  most  delicate 
point.  But  one  would  think  that  all  drank  the  elixir  of  life 
here — every  one  looks  yonng.  It  must  be  this  enchanting 
light.  Who  is  that  lady  with  Mr.  Wilion,  in  the  opposite 
room  ?" 

''Ah  !  jealous,  Miss  Cora  ?  He  seems  deeply  interested.  I 
do  not  know  the  lady,  excepting  as  a  wandering  personage — a 
mysterious  individual  that  claims  no  home  or  relatives.  1  would 
not  advise  you  to  seek  her  acquaintance,  fascinating  as  she  may 
be  to  your  friend." 

'•  She  looks  very  lovely,"  said  Cora,  "  but  too  sad  in  her 
weeds  for  this  gay  scene." 

"  Her  dress  is  certainly  woeful.  Ask  Wilton  if  she  plays 
the  dolorous  to  him.     1  don't  know,  but  suppose  she  is 

♦An  ignis  fdtaus  that  bewitches, 
And  leads  men  into  pools  and  ditches.'  " 

"  I  am  sure  she  could  do  no  wrong,"  said  Cora. 

"  I  am  fearless  of  her  wiles  ;  so  I  will  not  interfere  with  Mr. 
Wilton  on  this  ground.  On  another  "  he  whispered,  "  I  should 
be  more  reluctant  to  yield. 

"  My  dear  Cora  {he  spoke  lower),  by  your  father's  per- 
mission, I  shall  watch  over  you  ;  your  enjoyment,  while  in 
town,  it  shall  be  my  aim  to  promote.  Your  confidence  is  all  I 
ask.  Others  may  flatter  you  ;  I  am  your  best  friend  ;  rely  on 
me,  Cora,  and  remember  your  father's  aversion  to  Rufus  Wil- 
ton.    Let  me  warn  you  in  time." 

Cora's  cheek  burned  with  vexation.  She  drew  herself  proudly 
up,  and  said, 

"  I  need  no  warning."  Consciousness  then  overwhelmed  her  ; 
*.ears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  turned  away,  hiding  her  fane 
with  her  fan. 

"  Am  I  toe  late,  Cora  ?" 

"  Is  this  a  place  to  question  me  ?  If  you  are  appointed  my 
guardian,  I  wish  you  would  delay  your  inquiries  and  spare  " — 

"  My  advice      I  will.     Walk  with  me,  and  forget  my  offi- 


232  Isora's    Child. 

ciousness.     There  is  a  sweet  spot,  where  we  may  talk,  in  the 
conservatory." 

"Yes,  and  you  have  enjoyed  it  to-night,"  said  Cora,  with  sig- 
nificance. 

Clarendou  was  amazed — stung  by  her  allusion.  Policy  for- 
bade him  to  Dv^tice  it.  He  thought  her  jealous.  The  idea 
flattered  him.  He  knew  that  she  had  no  acquaintance  with 
Madame  Delano,  and  therefore  led  her  onward.  Cora  pas- 
sively followed.  She  cast  her  eyes  towards  the  retired  corner 
where  Wilton  had  sat  with  Mrs,  Linden,  The  lady  had  now 
gone.  He  was  alone,  viewing  the  crowd.  Her  look  was  not 
unobserved.  He  hastened  towards  her,  and  found  her  with  a 
flushed  cheek  and  quivering  lip,  listening  to  the  conversation 
of  Mr.  Clarendon. 

[Jnhesitatingly  he  approached  her,  and  reminded  her  of  her 
engagement  to  waltz  with  him. 

"  That  engagement  I  beg  leave  to  contest,"  said  Mr.  Clar- 
endon, with  more  spirit  than  courtesy. 

"  A  question  Miss  Livingston  will  decide,"  said  Wilton, 
coolly.  Cora  took  the  arm  of  the  latter,  saying,  in  a  tone 
which  Mr.  Clarendon  understood, 

"  You  cannot  contest  a  'premier  engngementy 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  much  annoyed.  Cora  had  assumed  a 
new  character  in  his  eyes  ;  he  had  deemed  her  passive,  and 
partially  under  his  control.  She  had  now  defied  him,  and  in 
the  language  of  Madame  Delano,  thrust  upon  him  what  he 
deemed  an  unpardonable  defence  of  her  course.  With  a  cold 
bow  he  left  her,  not  deigning  to  notice  Wilton, 

Mr.  Clarendon  did  not  again  intrude  himself  upon  Cora, 
The  remainder  of  the  evening  she  was  engrossed  by  Wilton, 
His  presence  dissipated  her  momentary  fears,  and  with  hap- 
piness on  her  beautiful  face,  she  wandered  from  room  to  room, 
through  the  many  brilliant  apartments  and  lighted  halls 
thronged  with  guests,  some  dancing,  some  chatting  and  flirt- 
ing, and  more,  with  masked  faces,  sighing  over  the  emptiness 
of  the  cup  they  drank.  In  unsympathizing  austerity  the 
satiated  guest  too  lingers  in  the  pleasure-seeking  saloon,  look- 
ing upon  the  bright  winged  revellers  that  (like  as  a  boy  chases 
the  painted  insect),  he  has  once  gaily  pursued,  but  now  views 
in  a  corner,  rapt  in  his  own  dreams. 

Again  Cora  and  Wilton  sought  the  seat  where,  beneath  the 
folds  of  the  crimson  curtain,  they  had  passed  an  hour  of  uu- 


Isoka's    Guild.  233 

alloyed  happiness.  But  the  parting  good  night  came  :  reluc- 
tantly the  soft  words  fell  from  hps  too  lotli  to  utter  them.  As 
Cora  breathed  her  night's  farewell,  a  half-blown  rose  fell  from 
her  bosom.  Wilton  raised  it  ;  unconsciously  he  held  it  to  his 
lips.  He  did  not  return  it.  It  seemed  a  part  of  her  who  had 
worn  it. 

And  then  the  morning  came— to  Cora  a  day  of  joyous 
brightness.  No  remembrances  saddened  her  heart  ;  all  that 
belongs  to  the  poetry,  the  romance  of  girlhood,  had  been  stirred 
up,  and  brilliant  was  the  many-hued  glass  through  which  she 
looked  back  upon  the  last  night's  festivity.  The  crowd,  the 
lights,  the  music,  had  cast  their  charm  over  the  fairy  scene, 
while  grace  and  beauty  floated  in  a  giddy  whirl  before  her  still 
enraptured  vision.  That  it  had  been  a  wedding  occasioned  her 
no  solemn,  no  thrilling  emotions.  But  who  that  have  pledged 
the  same  holy  vows,  and  at  the  same  sacred  altar  given  up 
their  hearts'  faith,  as  their  being,  until  death,  into  the  keeping 
of  another — but  look  upon  the  rite  which  sealed  their  own 
fate  with  joy  or  sorrow,  without  feeling  too  deep  for  words  ; 
and  who  that  see  a  beloved  one  thus  embark  on  the  ttimul- 
tous  sea  of  married  life,  but  tremble  while  they  bless  the 
union.  But  to  the  young — the  untried  in  life's  warfare — it  is 
an  occasion  only  of  joy  ;  to  them  it  brings  no  reminiscences, 
no  swelling  of  the  deep  tide  ever  gushing  in  the  faithful  bosom, 
no  crushing  sensations  of  love  misplaced,  of  wrongs  suffered  ; 
they  think  not  how  truly  it  is  "  the  blight,  or  bloom  of  hap- 
piness." An  exquisite  sense  of  enjoyment  alone  pervaded 
Cora's  young  heart  ;  though  not  unconscious  of  the  general 
admiration  that  followed  her  footsteps,  she  felt  a  pleasing  gra- 
tification in  what  she  deemed  a  solicitude  for  her  happiness,  a 
bewildering  pleasure  in  the  civilities  which  greeted  her.  It  was 
pleasant  to  receive  the  homage  of  the  crowd,  and  to  have  the 
power  to  reject  it  for  the  love  of  one  devoted  heart.  In  her 
happiness  she  had  forgotten  her  father's  prejudices.  A  sweet 
cup  had  been  presented  to  her  lips,  and  she  had  drank  it  freely, 
regardless  of  the  consequences.  The  dazzling  life  of  a  belle 
presented  to  her  no  delightful  vision.  Coquetry  dwelt  not  in 
her  nature.  She  was  too  pure  and  simple-hearted.  .  She 
seemed  a  child  of  the  violet-scented  woods,  in  whatever  garden 
she  was  placed.  She  reared  her  head  like  the  lily  that  bends 
in  the  summer  breeze,  and  as  pure  and  proud  she  seemed  ;  but 
like  the  "forget-me-not"  on  the  bank,  she  would  hide  herself 


234:  Isora's    Child. 

as  timidly  and  gracefully.  Like  the  same  delicate  spirits  of 
the  forest,  a  breath  of  coldness  chilled  her,  and  without  the 
dew  and  sunshine,  that  the  heart  as  well  as  flower  craves,  hers 
was  a  nature  to  droop  and  feel  the  blast. 

As  was  natural,  Cora  had  become  happy  in  the  home  of  her 
aunt.  She  had,  it  is  true,  parted  with  the  bride  and  her 
enamored  husband,  but  Mrs.  Livingston  had  so  urgently  invited 
her  to  remain  (for  the  latter  had  been  flattered  with  the 
admiration  her  young  relative  had  excited),  that  she  gratefully 
accepted  the  invitation. 

Her  dignified  aunt  had  been  as  much  amazed  as  her  daughter 
at  the  self-possession  and  grace  which  Cora  had  exhibited  ; 
and  though  the  playfulness,  the  naivete  of  the  child,  often 
excited  a  smile  from  the  observing,  still  her  wild  gaiety  was 
ever  tempered  by  dignity,  and  the  sweetness  of  manner  that 
captivated  the  most  fastidious,  derived  its  charms  from  the 
indication  it  gave  of  her  mind  and  disposition. 

At  the  hour  of  twelve  she  was  again  where  she  had  parted 
the  preceding  evening  with  Wilton. 

"Are  you  expecting  visitors,  my  love,"  said  her  aunt,  as  she 
affectionately  placed  her  hand  on  the  waving  curls  of  Cora,  but 
before  the  latter  could  reply,  Rufus  Wilton  presented  himself. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,"  said  Mrs  Livingston, 
offering  her  hand  to  the  young  man,  "to  call  back  the  rose 
that  has  vanished  from  the  cheek  of  our  young  belle.  Dissipa- 
tion does  not  seem  to  agree  with  her." 

"Be  careful,  dear  aunt,"  said  Cora,  winningly,  "You  don't 
know  how  susceptible  I  am  to  flattery,  and  might  plume  myself 
on  being  called  a  belle." 

"  Do  you  like  the  appellation  ?"  said  Wilton,  half  reproach- 
fully. 

"  I  can  hardly  judge,"  replied  Cora.  "  Isn't  it  generally  consi- 
dered the  great  aim  in  society  ?"  Cora's  smile  betrayed  how 
little  it  was  hers. 

"  If  she  remains  in  Xew-York  this  winter,  her  tastes  will 
soon  be  developed,"  said  the  aunt,  while  she  left  the  parlor, 
assigning  an  apology  for  her  absence.  Wilton  then  informed 
Cora  that  he  had  been  to  visit  Mrs.  Linden. 

"I  saw  you  with  the  lady,"  said  Cora,  "last  evening.  I<? 
she  amiable  ?  She  seemed  to  me  inaccessible  ;  I  think  I 
should  fear  her." 

"  She  is  rather  singular,"  said  Wilton,  "  but  still  she  inte« 


Isoka's    Child.  235 

rests  me.  I  have  known  her  since  I  was  a  boy,  and  she  is 
among  my  most  sincere  friends — perhaps  I  have  not  a  better. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  tliis  morniuj^.  She  is  living 
very  obscurely,  but  if  she  was  in  a  hovel,  she  would  be  queenly. 
She  was  as  winning  and  sweet  to  day,  as  affectionate  gentle- 
ness could  make  a  woman,  haughty  as  she  seems  in  company. 
She  sang  to  me,  and  talked  so  beautifully,  yet  mysteriously,  of 
her  life,  that  1  lingered  like  one  charmed.  JSo  one  but  you, 
Cora,  could  have  lured  me  from  her.  She  also  talked  to  me 
of  my  mother,  and  described  to  me  minutely  her  habits  and 
her  tastes,  and  spoke  affectingly  of  her  love  for  me  as  a  child  ; 
but  when  I  ask  her  history,  she  says  plaintively,  '  Oh,  it  was 
the  providence  of  God  ;  hope,  dear  Rufus,  that  you  may  hud 
her  yet.'  '• 

Cora  looked  seriously  as  she  inquired  ;  "  What  does  your 
father  say  of  her  ?" 

"Cora,  on  this  subject,"  replied  Wilton,  "his  silence  is  as 
deep  as  the  grave."  7\.s  Wilton  spoke,  flashes  of  feeling  passed 
over  his  face.  These  silent  workings  of  his  mind,  which  often 
clouded  his  sunniest  moments,  had  a  powerful  effect  on  the 
imagination  of  Cora.  There  seemed  to  her  something  within, 
that  she  could  not  read  or  fathom.  This  mysterious  under-cur- 
rent of  thought  captivated  and  excited  her  fancy.  The  ideal 
seemed  so  woven  with  the  real  in  his  nature,  that  the  sunshine 
of  his  smile,  to  her,  was  but  the  gilding  to  a  veiled  and  magi- 
cal picture. 

And  yet  openness  and  candor  were  strong  characteristics  in 
the  nature  of  Rufus  Wilton,  All  that  related  to  himself,  his 
hopes  and  fears,  he  would  have  confided  to  one  who  loved  him, 
and  sympathized  in  his  emotions  ;  but  dark  thoughts  concerning 
his  father  and  his  domestic  history,  cast  frequent  periods  of 
gloom  over  his  mind,  and  dampened  many  of  his  youthful 
hours.  His  dislike  of  concealment,  and  horror  of  duplicity, 
made  him  look  upon  the  untold  history  of  his  mother  with  mis- 
trust and  sorrow.  He  felt  that  knowledge  of  the  worst  that 
could  have  transpired,  would  have  relieved  his  apprehensions, 
but  to  harbor  dark  suspicion  of  his  father,  such  as  he  could  not 
banish,  harassed  and  distressed  him  ;  and  the  never-dying  tale 
of  his  mother's  strange  disappearance,  without  a  word  of 
explanation  to  soothe  his  pride,  and  the  wounded  honor  of  his 
family,  merged  him  in  deep  and  painful  regret. 

For  some  moments  he  conthiued  silent,  then  with  sweetness 


236  I  s  ()  K  a'  s    Child. 

of  accent,  softened  to  a  girl's  tenderness,  he  said  ;  "  Forgive 
my  abstraction,  Cora,  you  are  indeed  looking  pale  this  morn- 
ing, and  seem  a  little  sad."  He  had  not  observed  that  the  sha- 
dow on  his  own  face  had  also  darkened  hers.  "  I  hope  that 
you  will  remain  sometime  in  town,"  he  continued,  "  and  that 
we  can  make  you  very  happy  here.  Will  you  not  promise  not 
to  discard  me  for  another  guardian  ?  Mr.  Clarendon  assumes  a 
right,  apparently,  to  protect  and  entertain  you,  but  such 
monopoly  alarms  me  little,  while  you  assure  me  that  it  meets 
not  with  your  sanction.  Yet,  Cora,  I  cannot  understand  why, 
without  it,  that  he  can  so  coolly  assume  a  privilege  that  makes 
the  world  envious,  much  more  one  whose  life  lies  in  your  undi- 
vided preference." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  he  was  far  away,"  murmured  Cora,  "  I  tremble 
when  his  eye  is  on  me  ;  I  did  not  once  feel  so.  I  made  him 
angry  last  night." 

"  How  ?  by  leaving  him,  to  dance  with  me  ?  He  certainly 
does  not  need  a  favorite  on  whom  to  lavish  his  courtly  smiles, 
and  favors  ;  Cora,  generosity  need  not  compel  you  to  make  one 
of  the  galaxy  he  honors  with  his  preference.  Believe  me,  dear 
one,  he  is  consoled,  and  if  he  were  not — what  then  ?" 

Wilton  questioned  Cora  with  both  eye  and  tongue.  The 
first  seemed  to  search  her  with  a  deep  and  heartfelt  earnest- 
ness, while  his  voice  sank  to  the  lowest  tone  of  harmony,  as  he 
closed  the  sentence  with  a  query. 

"  Oh,"  Cora  whispered,  "  he  knows  that  I  do  not  like 
him — I  do  not  mean  that — but  that  I  can  never  be  more  to 
him  " 

"  Than  you  now  are,  Cora,"  interposed  Wilton  ;  "  then  he 
shall  not  wear  even  the  semljlance  of  a  lover." 

"  But,"  murmured  Cora,  ''  my  father  likes  him — he  has  been 
good  to  him,  and  I  am  grateful." 

"Cora,  what  may  I  then  not  fear?  what  must  I  not  think 
of  all  this  intimate  friendship  ?" 

"  He  has  much  business  with  papa,  and  he  comes  very  often 
to  see  us — but  I  thought  he  had  given  me  up,  until  kist  even- 
ing." 

Cora's  voice  trembled  as  she  spoke,  for  sudden  fears  came 
over  her.  She  then  added  : — "  If  the  worst  should  happen — 
if  you  can  never  visit  me,  he  will  be  nothing  to  me — believe 
this,  Rufus." 

'*  Oh  1  Cora,"  said  Wilton  passionately.    "  Have  you  listened 


Isora's    Child.  237 

80  lately  to  words  of  love  from  liira  ?  My  darling  Cora,  deny 
it — tell  me  it  is  false — do  not  trifle  with  me," 

Cora's  eyes  fell  beneath  those  of  Wilton,  while  she  replied  : 
"  You  torture  me  ;  if  you  would  have  spaced  me,  why  were 
you  not  sooner  by  my  side  ?" 

"  I  could  not  then  leave  Mrs.  Linden ;  she  is  one  whom  I 
cannot  regard  lightly  ;  she  has  been  to  me  a  friend  indeed." 

"  Ah  !  but  you  lingered  after  she  left  you  ;  during  that 
interval  you  might  have  saved  me  pain." 

Tears  fell  through  Cora's  fingers.  Wilton  now  soothed  her 
as  tenderly  as  he  had  warmly  reproached.  Sunlight  came 
through  the  cloud,  and  beamed  the  brighter  for  the  rain-drops 
that  had  fallen.. 

Thrilling  words,  and  professions  more  fervent  than  the  writ- 
ten page  should  reveal,  lulled  the  storm  of  feeling  that  jealousy 
had  brewed. 

While  in  hushed  tones,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  the  young 
lovers  forgot  the  world  beside,  and  in  the  blissful  present,  shut 
out  all  boding  fears — the  door-bell  rung  !  and  Mr.  Clarendon 
entered  the  saloon.  As  he  addressed  Cora,  he  remarked  the 
rich  glow  of  her  cheek,  and  her  moistened  lashes,  and  was  not 
deceived  by  the  self-possession  of  Wilton,  nor  the  less  success- 
ful efforts  of  Cora  to  assume  composure.  Without  regarding  the 
former,  save  by  a  cold  bow,  with  graceful  ease  he  seated  him- 
self by  the  latter,  commencing  to  converse  upon  different  topics, 
without  any  apparent  remembrance  of  his  vexation  the  evening 
previous. 

Wilton  turned  to  a  table  where  lay  some  books,  to  which  he 
devoted  his  attention.  He  opened  one,  and  marked  a  passage; 
as  he  did  so,  he  looked  across  to  Cora.  With  easy  indifierence 
the  chat  proceeded,  when  Mr.  Clarendon  asked  her  if  slie 
would  accompany  him  the  following  day  to  Rosehill,  the  resi- 
dence of  an  old  friend  of  her  father's.  As  he  concluded,  he 
handed  Cora  a  letter,  requesting  him  to  take  his  daughter 
to  the  place  mentioned.  Cora  was  chagrined,  but  felt,  that 
under  the  circumstances,  she  could  not  refuse  ;  so  with  evident 
reluctance  she  gave  her  consent  to  the  proposal.  Mr.  Claren- 
don adroitly  directed  the  conversation,  wholly  drawing  her  from 
Wilton,  whose  occasional  remarks  to  Cora,  he  interrupted,  by 
making  inquiries  entirely  irrelevant  to  their  import.  But  to 
this  assumed  importance,  Cora  gave  no  heed,  but  replied  atten- 


238  I  s  o  R  A '  s    Child. 

tively  to  Wilton.  Her  manner  enraged  Mr  Clarendon,  which 
provoked  him  to  add  insult  to  insult,  under  the  disguise  of 
courtesy,  in  remarks  which  evidently  bore  upon  the  latter. 

After  endeavoring  to  do  away  the  impression  which  his  visit 
had  made  upon  Cora,  Mr.  Clarendon  appointed  the  hour  that 
he  was  to  call  for  her,  to  go  into  the  country,  to  which  she 
acquiesced,  and  he  took  his  leave. 

A  few  moments  after,  Wilton,  with  strange  and  sudden  cool- 
ness, parted  with  Cora,  when  she  went  to  her  chamber  and 
tried  to  amuse  herself  with  a  book,  but  her  mind  was  ill  at 
ease.  She  half  wished  that  she  had  contented  herself  with  her 
quiet  home  and  her  dear  father. 

Until  Mr.  Clarendon  had  come,  she  had  been  happy — and 
suddenly  and  painfully  arose  in  her  mind  the  query-— "  Would 
her  father  be  pleased  did  he  know  the  real  source  of  Ler  happi- 
ness." She  felt  that  she  had  neglected  him  in  her  sticcessiou 
of  mingled  enjoyments.  She  resolved  immediately  to  write  him. 
There  was  much,  she  thought,  that  she  could  relate  to  him 
about  the  wedding,  and  how  she  liked  her  new  relatives,  and 
moreover,  that  she  had  engaged  to  go  to  Rosehill  with  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon. 

All  this  she  sat  down  and  wrote  her  father,  and  as  her 
pen  flew,  and  her  heart  went  back  to  her  dear  home,  she  told 
him  too  how  she  longed  to  see  him,  and  how  much  sweeter  her 
dear  old  cot  was,  than  all  the  splendor  of  New-York,  and  that 
since  her  separation,  she  had  never  loved  him  so  well.  Then 
she  sent  messages  to  Sophy,  Jamie,  and  Judy,  with  injunctions 
to  the  latter  to  be  a  good  girl,  and  not  to  forget  her  birds^ 
her  flowers,  and  to  feed  her  rabbits,  and  last,  though  not  least, 
to  take  good  care  of  old  Goody  Burke.  With  many  kisses  and 
blessings,  she  closed  her  epistle.  She  had  not  once  mentioned 
Rufus  Wilton.  She  tried  to  quiet  her  conscience  by  thinking 
that  when  she  saw  her  father,  she  would  tell  him  how  unavoid- 
ably she  had  met  him,  and  that  if  he  knew  all  that  had  happen- 
ed, and  how  sincere  and  good  he  was,  that  he  must  at  last  like 
him.  So  she  tried  to  reason — love  had  blindfolded  her  eyes, 
and  her  dream  was  too  beautiful  to  resign. 

She  had  promised,  at  the  hour  of  four,  to  ride  with  her  young 
lover,  and  although  he  had  parted  from  her  coldly,  she  longed 
for  the  time  to  come  that  she  might  win  back  his  beauti- 
ful smile,  and  again  drink  the  fascination  of  the  voice  she  so 


Is  oka's    Child.  239 

well  loved.  Poor  Cora  !  her  heart  was  in  a  sad  flutter,  for 
with  all  her  happiness,  her  father's  frovyn  seemed  to  cast  over 
her  its  p:looin. 

The  hour  came.  The  air  was  keen  and  frosty.  There  were 
no  glittering  trees  to  dazzle  the  eye,  but  the  swift  gliding 
sleighs  as  they  passed  and  repassed  in  merry  confusion — 
the  jingling  of  bells,  the  dashing  of  spirited  horses — the 
rushing  of  a  city  populace  eager  to  enjoy  the  fast  vanishing 
snow — the  brilliant  display  of  beautiful  women  and  children, 
and  some  not  so  beautiful,  gay  in  rich  attire — was  all  a  scene 
of  exciting  interest  to  Cora.  The  joy  that  danced  in  her  eyes, 
brought  sunshine  to  Wilton's,  and  he  blamed  himself  for  twice 
clouding  the  brightness  of  hers.  His  high  temper  and  impetu- 
osity cost  him  much  trouble.  He  had  been  irritated  by  the 
thought  of  Cora's  contemplated  ride  with  Mr.  Clarendon,  but 
he  saw  no  way  that  he  could  reasonably  prevent  it,  and  he 
endeavored  to  overcome  his  repugnance  to  the  step.  He  had 
therefore  schooled  himself  into  a  reasonable  mood,  while  he 
relied  on  his  trust  in  Cora 

For  sometime  the  pleasure  of  their  ride  was  keenly  enjoyed. 
Wilton  met  many  of  his  acquaintances,  and  Cora  some, 
which  she  had  made  the  evening  previous.  Merry  smiles,  and 
significant  looks  were  exchanged.  Cora  was  brilliantly  gay, 
and  most  pleasantly  excited  by  their  joyous  ride  ;  and  as  they 
passed  onward  out  of  the  crowded  streets,  Cora  gave  Wiltou. 
a  brief  account  of  the  adventure  of  her  sleighride  with  Mr. 
Clarendon,  on  the  Hudson.  He  had  heard  something  of  it,  but 
had  never  known  the  extent  of  her  sufferings.  The  relation 
from  Cora's  lips  much  interested  and  excited  Wilton,  and  as 
he  followed  her  in  imagination  with  Clarendon  that  cokl  night 
through  the  critical  snow-path,  until  they  glided  madly,  and 
preci})itately,  to  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  over  which  they 
plunged;  with  pale  lips,  and  clenched  teeth,  he  muttered  some- 
thing that  sounded  like  a  curse  on  the  temerity  and  carelessness 
of  him  who  had  so  recklessly  driven  her  into  danger  and 
suffering. 

"  Oh  1  hush!'-  said  Cora,  "don't  blame  him,  he  saved  me 
nobly." 

"  Saved  you,  Cora  !  Tell  me  all  your  peril,"  said  Wilton, 
earnestly,  Cora  went  on  with  the  account,  and  when  she 
pictured  their  freezing  state,  and  the  depths  of  snow  in  which 
they  were  left  embedded,  and  of  Clarendon's  energy  and  reso- 


240  Tsoka's    Child. 

lution,  in  carrying  her  almost  lifeless  and  cold  as  death  itself, 
so  near  the  i-nn,  where  he  sunk  himself  exhausted  ;  with  a  voice 
of  tremor  and  passion,  Wilton  exclaimed  : — 

*'  It  was  heroically  done,  Cora,  but  had  he  had  a  drop  of 
man's  blood  in  his  veins,  he  would  have  died,  to  have  saved  one 
he  had  so  imminently  perilled.  For  his  resolution  I  forgive 
him,  but  had  he  flinched  one  millionth  part  of  a  step  the  less, 
he  should  have  been  posted  as  less  than  a  man  in  heart,  nerve, 
or  courage.  He  would  not  have  deserved  a  burial  if  he  had 
died  by  your  side,  while  such  an  impetus  stirred  him  onward. 
Cora,  my  blood  boils  when  I  think  of  his  rashness.  Poor 
little  frozen  one  !"  Wilton's  impassioned  voice  now  softened 
into  the  tone  of  gentlest  pity,  and  as  he  spoke  the  robe  was 
involuntarily  drawn  about  her,  although  the  sun  was  fast  melt- 
ing away  the  snow. 

"But  you  do  not  award  him  all  he  deserves,  I  think,"  said 
Cora. 

"  Shall  I  thank  the  man  that  raslily  plunged  me  into  a  stream, 
without  warning,  because  he  tries  to  resuscitate  me  when  life 
is  nearly  extinct  ?" 

"  Ah  I  yes,"  said  Cora.  "  Be  grateful  for  all  the  good  we 
receive  ;  without  the  evil  we  might  not  appreciate  it."  ,. 

'*  You  would  then  advocate  the  doctrine,  *  do  evil,  that  good 
may  come?'  Ko,  Cora,  I  may  be  stern  in  my  notions  of  right, 
but  I  would  look  before  I  leap,  and  if  I  knew  the  right  path, 
I  believe  it  my  duty  to  follow  it,  though  by  it  I  sacriticed  my 
happiness,  even  my  life.  But  this  is  not  apropos — Clarendon 
knew  the  value  of  the  prize  he  guarded — he  should  not  have 
risked  it  for  a  selfish  pleasure — but  I  believe  this  is  character- 
istic of  the  man — he  will  pluncre  headlong  over  any  precipice, 
so  that  he  fancies  the  road  to  its  edge  a  smooth  one.  May  it 
be  the  last  plunge  that  you  will  take  with  him.  Cora,  1  wish 
to  speak  more  frankly  with  you.  I  despise  an  underhanded 
course  as  much  in  love  matters,  as  in  those  of  another  nature. 
^ly  heart  and  soul  are  bound  up  in  you,  but  without  your 
father's  sanction,  I  do  wrong  to  address  you.  God  knows 
tliat  I  believe  it  fully  in  my  power  to  gain  his  consent,  other- 
wise my  tongue  should  have  been  silent,  I  know  his  prejudice 
against  my  father,  but  that  need  not  necessarily  extend  to  the 
son,  I  was  rather  haughty  at  our  last  meeting.  Be  my 
mediator,  Cora,  and  I  will  seek  him  immediately  with  your 
pf^rmiss^n." 


Isoea's    Guild.  241 

Cora's  heart  was  lightened  of  its  burden.  Wilton  wished 
to  acknowledge  boldly  his  affection  for  her — now  she  should 
be  strengthened  in  her  plea  for  her  dear,  her  noble  Wilton. 
Ill  trustful  silence,  such  silence  as  tells  more  truthful  confidence 
than  words  can  convey,  they  returned  from  their  joyous  ride. 
By  invitation  of  Mrs.  Linden,  Cora  consented  to  call  with 
Wilton,  the  same  evening,  at  her  abode.  The  latter  explained 
to  Cora  the  reduced  circumstances  of  his  friend,  and  the  privacy 
of  her  home.  He  told  her  that  she  must  trust  to  him,  and  that 
he  hoped  whatever  peculiarities  she  observed  in  the  lady,  that 
she  would  regard  them  charitably,  and  not  allow  them  to  bias 
her  mind  agaiiist  her.     To  this  Cora  readily  consented. 

As  evening  advanced,  they  sought  the  home  of  Mrs.  Linden. 
Cora  had  obtained  readily  the  consent  of  her  aunt,  to  accompany 
the  ricli  and  popular  young  favorite,  whose  hand  the  proudest 
belle  would  have  accepted,  and  whose  attentions  to  her  pretty 
niece  had  been  considered  so  marked  and  flattering  to  the 
*  country  beauty.'  So  they  threaded  the  public  streets,  and 
thence  through  more  ol3scure  and  darker  ones,  until  they  reached 
a  low  and  humble  dwelling,  the  abode  of  Mrs.  Linden  and  Flora 
Islington. 

Since  the  last  interview  of  Flora  with  her  deserted  guardian, 
and  the  visit  to  his  home  unknown  to  himself,  whence  she  had 
fled  with  pious  resolution,  she  had  wandered  serene  and  statue- 
like  in  the  path  of  her  daily  duties.  She  sang  more  than 
formerly,  and  her  reveries  were  longer  and  more  abstracted. 
Yet  her  smile  came  again :  but  Mrs.  Linden  said  that  it  made  her 
more  sad  than  her  tears — its  sweetness  was  so  angelic,  as  she 
spoke  of  the  peace  that  had  come  to  her  heart — of  the  terrible 
struggles  that  had  all  passed  away,  and  left  her  calm  and 
happy.  When  she  now  sung,  few  that  heard  the  melting  ten- 
derness of  her  tones  could  restrain  their  tears.  At  times  she 
would  go  to  her  chamber  and  take  out  the  old  instrument  that 
had  been  the  charm  of  her  childhood,  and  steal  away  by  herself, 
and  play  upon  it — and  as  she  thus  sat,  how  often,  with  her  hair 
unbound,  she  was  like  the  little  Flora,  as  she  came  to  her 
guardian,  after  her  mother's  death.  She  had  lost  none  of  her 
perfection  of  form,  but  she  was  now  so  pale,  and  her  atti- 
tudes often  so  childlike,  and  her  expression  so  pure  and  radiant, 
that  no  one  who  looked  upon  her  could  have  thwarted  her,  but 
an  instinctive  feeling  would  lead  the  beholder  to  part  her  long 

11 


242  Isoka's    Child. 

hair,  and  to  smooth  her  beautiful  temples,  while  they  said, 
"  Poor  Flora,  go  to  thy  rest." 

But  "little"  Flora  was  not  deranged,  though  she  seemed 
too  sad,  too  sweet  for  this  mortal  guise.  She  loved  her  flowers 
and  her  little  bird  that  her  guardian  had  given  her,  for  he  finally, 
sent  her  everything  that  had  belonged  to  her,  and  more  than 
all,  she  loved  her  Bible  and  her  God.  She  spent  hours  in 
prayer,  with  her  head  bent  sorrowfully,  while  she  seemed  never 
to  cease  to  mourn  the  hour  of  passion  and  sinful  emotion,  that 
carried  her  back  to  her  guardian's  home,  for  "  oh,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  it  was  idolatry,"  the  madness  of  an  earthly  love,  that 
to  heaven  she  had  vowed  to  crush.  Flora  knew  that  to-night 
Mrs.  Linden  expected  a  friend.  She  had  seen  her  weep  after 
the  departure  of  a  young  man  that  she  had  never  seen,  simply 
wondering  if  she  had  ever  known  what  it  was  to  love.  To- 
night she  had  heard  her  say,  that  her  young  friend  was  coming 
again,  and  was  to  bring  a  beautiful  girl  with  him,  and  she 
expected  her  to  see  them. 

But  Flora  smiled  and  sighed  while  she  shook  her  head,  and 
said,  "I  will  go  and  carry  some  gruel  to  old  sick  Katy,  and 
read  to  her  until  they  are  gone.  I  will  return  as  soon  as  the 
carriage  passes.     I  can  see  from  the  windows  of  Katy's  room." 

It  chanced  that  the  same  night,  Mr.  Clarendon  had  seen  Cora 
and  Wilton  leave  the  home  of  Mrs.  Livingston.  The  former 
had  just  driven  to  the  door  which  they  left.  He  had  observed 
the  movements  of  the  two,  and  ordered  his  driver  to  follow  in 
the  same  direction.  At  no  great  distance  he  watched  them; 
and  when  he  alighted  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Linden,  he  had  step- 
ped from  the  vehicle,  and  across  the  street  from  her  present 
home,  had  seen  Flora  enter  that  of  the  humble  Katy. 

Cora  in  all  her  fresh  young  charms  was  now  forgotten  A 
thrill  of  stronger  emotion  than  her  loveliness  had  ever  inspired, 
shot  through  his  frame.  He  was  again  near  his  own,  once 
loving  Flora.  He  saw  her  pale,  chiselled  features,  her  dark, 
lustrous  eyes,  and  the  expression  of  ineflTable  sweetness  that 
played  about  her  mouth,  as  she  went  forth  in  the  performance 
of  her  holy  duty.  The  curtain  was  unclosed  in  Katy's  lowly 
room.  His  once  pleasure-loving  idol,  she  who  had  so  often  sunk 
by  his  side,  while  he  had  won  her  smiles,  and  then  drawn  tears 
of  delicious  joy,  as  she  listened,  enraptured  with  the  seductive 
poetry  he  read— the  same  dear  one  was  before  him,  so  changed, 


IsoRA's    Child.  24o 

so  differently  occupied.  He  watched  her  waving  form,  as  it 
►bent  over  the  old  woman's  bed.  And  there,  on  that  old, 
wrinkled  form,  rested  with  benignant  sweetness,  the  eyes  that 
had  disappeared  as  stars  sometimes  do  in  the  cloudless  blue  of 
heaven.  He  saw  her  put  the  cup  to  the  old  woman's  parched 
and  skinny  lips,  and  looked  upon  her  own,  still  beautiful,  though 
of  paler,  fainter  red.  He  watched  her  white,  soft  fingers,  as 
they  smoothed  the  pillow  of  the  sufferer,  and  saw  her  replace  the 
fresh  young  flowers  that  had  dropped  from  the  palsied,  trembling 
hand  of  the  old  woman  (for  with  a  clutch  she  had  tried  to  reach 
them),  and  then  sit  down  by  her  side,  and  read  her  a  hymn  of 
peace  and  joy.  It  was  a  holy  sight;  but  the  heart  of  Louis 
Clarendon  was  not  purified  by  the  vision.  The  old  woman 
seemed  to  him  but  pollution  to  her  touch,  and  the  wretch- 
edness of  the  hovel  but  the  prison  bars  to  a  beautiful  warljler, 
that  had  once  sung  in  light  and  fragrance.  He  saw  naught  but 
fanaticism  in  her  charitable  employment,  and  the  influence 
of  a  Puritanical  hypocrite  in  the  desertion  of  his  lovelj 
ward. 

She  now  approached  the  window,  to  see  if  the  carriage  had 
left  the  door  of  Mrs.  Linden  ;  for  after  it  should  have  rolled 
away,  she  intended  to  go  home.  She  went  about  the  room, 
and  performed  all  those  gentle  ofiices  the  sick  required,  and 
when  she  saw  that  old  Katy  was  in  a  comfortable  sleep,  she 
retired  into  a  small  room  near  the  entrance,  and  with  her  head 
on  her  hand,  listened  for  the  sound  of  the  carriage.  Mr. 
Clarendon,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  paced  the  walk,  and  at  each 
turn  had  looked  into  the  low,  uncurtained  window.  He  now 
saw  that  Flora  had  left  the  bed,  and  that  the  old  woman  was 
asleep.  He  summoned  a  carriage,  and  resolved  to  take  Flora 
home  with  him,  and  to  endeavor,  if  possible,  to  regain  her  confi- 
dence. He  could  npver  forget  that  he  had  vowed  to  cherish 
the  orphan  child,  ana  her  situation  pained  and  distressed  him. 
Was  there  one  in  the  wide  world,  he  asked  himself,  that  loved 
her  as  he  did  ;  one  who  would  lavish  upon  her  wealth  and 
luxury  ? 

He  argued  himself  into  the  belief,  that  as  her  guardian,  and 
by  his  vow  to  her  dying  mother,  he  had  a  right  to  claim  her  ; 
so  he  opened  tlie  door  of  the  humble  dwelling,  and  stood  by 
the  side  of  Flora.  She  did  not  start  or  scream,  for  little  now 
agitated  her,  but  she  rose,  and  said  gently  : 

"You   have  erred,   sir — this  is   the  home    of   a    poor    sick 


2i4:  Isoka's    Child. 

woman."  But  before  she  could  have  received  a  repiy,  sne 
recoa-nized  lier  guardian's  features. 

"Flora,"  said  he,  "  you  are  pale  and  wretched  ;  come  home, 
my  darling,  and  I  will  make  you  happy." 

The  sad  girl  raised  her  eyes,  and  mournfully  put  aside  his 
his  hand,  while  she  said  : 

"  Is  it  wretchedness  to  do  good  ?  our  Saviour  found  happi- 
ness in  the  office.  And  you,  my  dear  guardian,  once  felt  it 
pleasure,  when  you  soothed  a  dying  mother's  bed,  and  protected 
her  little  child.  That  friendless  one  is  always  grateful  ;  but 
/lis  home,  is  now  no  longer  a  home  for  her.  Oh,  it  matters  not," 
she  again  murmured,  in  a  sweet  low  tone,  "  where  our  home  is, 
in  this  poor  world.  Look  at  that  old  dying  woman,  she  will 
soon  be  richer  than  we  are.  She  will  be  at  peace  in  her  hea- 
venly home.  I  am  glad  that  you  sent  me  my  bird  and  my  old 
lute,  and  my  books,  they  comfort  me,  for  I  am  not  wretched 
now.  Go  back,  dear  guardian,  yoa  were  kind  to  come  and 
speak  to  me,  for  you  would  not  harm  me — I  am  not  afraid  of 
y^ou,  though  it  is  dark  and  lonely  here.  You,  who  cherished  the 
the  little  orphan  one,  could  not  make  my  heart  ache  with  sor- 
row ;  when  I  loved  you  so  madly,  it  pained  me  to  think  of 
you  even  while  I  clung  to  you  so  wildly  ;  but  now,  I  can  pray 
for  you,  and  see  you  without  one  pang." 

"  And  is  your  love  all  gone,  Flora  ?" 

The  pale  girl  fixed  her  large  eyes  on  his,  and  giving  him  her 
hand,  said,  "  Do  I  love  you  ? — love  you? — no  one  else  on  earth 
fills  this  poor  heart  but  you,  my  guardian,  my  early  friend  ; 
for  you,  I  would  sacrifice  my  life  ;  for  you,  I  would  wander 
over  the  wide  earth,  but  it  would  be  for  your  eternal  happiness. 
Could  I,  who  ought  to  be  so  grateful,  abuse  the  gifts  of  Heaven, 
abuse  your  early  love  for  me,  and  with  wild  insanity,  fly  to  your 
Eden  bower,  and  again  worship  you,  casting  out  the  God  who 
has  protected  me,  and  who  will  lead  us  both  to  the  gate  of 
Heaven  ?  Oh,  would  that  you  felt  the  peace  that  is  not  of 
earth  !  But  I  trust  that  hour  will  come.  The  night  is  cold  ; 
will  you  suffer  going  home  ?" 

"  Flora,  come  where  no  cold  shall  chill  you  ;  if  7?iy  home  is  no 
home  for  you,  I  will  find  another  ;  as  you  say,  could  I  harm 
you,  angel  one*?  No,  you  shall  be  as  safe  beneath  my  protect- 
ing care  as  in  a  brother's.  Flora,  I  tenderly,  purely  love  you, 
would  that  I  could  take  you  to  this  bosom,  never  more  on 
earth  to  part  1  but  this  cannot  be  ;  but  I  can  see  you — I  can 


Isora's    Guild.  245 

«ove  you,  and  these  sad  eyes  will  brighten  beneath  the  roof 
wliere  I  will  place  you.  Music  shall  be  our  food,  and  warmth, 
light,  and  fragrance,  the  atmosphere  you  breathe." 

Flora  drewher  hand  over  her  pale  forehead,  while  she  faintly 
said,  "1  feel  as  if  in  a  dream,  I  was  listening;  your  words 
strangely  fascinate  me  ;  but  I  can  leave  you  now — once  I 
could  not." 

"  Oh,  no — not  yet,  you  must  not  go  forth  to  that  miserable 
home."  As  Clarendon  spoke,  he  approached  her,  but  she  had 
slid  trembling  from  him,  and  not  until  he  had  made  an  effort  to 
take  her  to  the  carriage,  did  a  sound  betray  her  agitation. 

Then,  the  low,  wild  cry  was  faint,  and  that  was  an  appeal  to 
her  God.  At  that  moment,  Cora  and  Wilton  were  listening  to 
the  cheerful  voice  of  Mrs.  Linden.  She  had  welcomed  Cora 
with  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  and  told  her,  while  she  passed  her 
hand  over  her  silken  hair,  that  she  looked  a  little — a  very  little 
like  her  father.  Mrs.  Linden  spoke  tenderly,  and  looked  ear- 
nestly upon  her.  Cora  was  made  happy,  unexpectedly  so,  by 
the  warmth  of  her  greeting  ;  she  even  amused  them  by  her 
seeming  gaiety.  She  sang  and  played  to  them  in  a  brilliant 
style,  and  then,  at  Wilton's  request,  touched  the  keys  of  her 
instrument  with  more  soulful  music,  and  even  drew  tears  by 
the  pathos  of  her  tones. 

With  her  eyes  upon  Cora,  Mrs.  Linden  came  behind  the 
chair  of  her  young  friend,  and  with  both  her  hands  drew  her 
lingers  through  his  hair,  then  throwing  it  back  from  his  fore- 
head, with  a  look  of  pride,  she  said,  "  Does  he  not  look  better 
so  ?  So  I  used  to  dress  his  hair  while  in  college.  Don't  you 
think  our  Rufus  is  a  careless  boy  ?  Careless  of  all  but  those 
he  loves  ;  there  his  vigilance  never  ceases." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  friend,"  Wilton  replied,  "  you  are  too  partial. 
It  is  true  that  I  would  like  the  privilege  of  protecting  you  in 
your  lonely  home." 

At  this  moment,  ]\[rs.  Linden  had  looked  forth  into  the 
street.  Old  Katy's  dwelling  was  opposite  hers.  She  saw  the 
carriage  and  heard  the  faint  cry  of  Flora,  as  she  retreated 
from  a  form  just  visible  in  the  darkness. 

Without  a  word,  she  rushed  out  of  the  door,  and  while 
Clarendon  was  again  at  the  side  of  Flora,  she  grasped  his  arm, 
and  exclaimed  in  an  under  tone. 

"Release  her  ;  she  has  chosen  her  own  lot,  and  the  penalty 
will  rest  on  your  soul,  if  you  lure  her  from   the  asylum  io 


246  Isora's    Child. 

which  Heaven  has  placed  her."  Clareudon  disappeared  in  the 
darkness,  and  Flora  clasped  the  arm  of  Mrs.  Linden.  The 
next  moment,  the  pale  bewildered  girl  sank  breathless  on 
her  bosom.  Rufns  Wilton  came  hastily  across  the  street, 
and  assisted  Mrs.  Linden  in  the  care  of  the  fainting  girl. 

They  brought  her  into  the  parlor,  where  Cora  sat  agitated 
with  alarm  at  the  strange  and  sudden  scene.  The  face  of 
Flora  struck  them  as  like  that  of  a  beautiful  statue,  as  she 
lay  apparently  lifeless  on  the  couch. 

Not  a  word  was  said  in  explanation  of  the  scene,  and  Cora 
and  Wilton  left  wholly  in  mystery  as  to  the  affair.  But  the 
latter  had  seen  the  carriage  as  it  rolled  onward,  which  kept  in 
advance  of  their  own,  untd  it  stopped  at  the  door  of  Mr. 
Clarendon. 

"  Whose  beautiful  house  is  that  ?''  said  Cora,  as  she  noticed 
the  front  of  a  costly  edihce,  the  balconies  of  which  were  filled 
with  plants.  "  See  that  lovely  court  beside  it,  with  the  carved 
stone  pillars  !" 

"  That  is  the  home  of  Mr.  Clarendon,  Cora,  and  that  gen- 
tleman now  alighting,  is  himself." 

"  He  must  then  have  been  near  us  to-night,"  said  Cora. 

*'  But  not  to  see  you  only,  dearest — he  has  had  another 
object." 

The  features  and  prostidte  form  of  Flora  lingered  on  Cora's 
memory,  and  Wilton  reflected  with  deep  interest  on  the 
incident  that  so  accidentally  revealed  to  them  the  unconscious 
girl.  Why  she  was  rescued  from  seeming  peril  by  Mrs. 
Linden,  he  k?:ew  not  ;  he  only  believed  that  all  his  friend  had 
done  was  right  ;  and  that  she  had  in  her  heart,  and  on  her 
mind,  darker  mysteries,  yet  unrevealed. 

The  evening  had  been,  both  to  Wilton  and  Cora,  a  happy 
one  The  snow  had  all  vanished,  but  the  air  was  clear  and 
the  star-light  shone  peacefully  upon  them.  They  had  greatly 
enjoyed  their  long  ride,  and  the  agitation  which  the  vision  of 
Flora  had  brought  to  their  minds,  was  at  length  forgotten  in  the 
communion  of  their  own  hearts.  But  one  weight  rested  upon 
their  spirits.  They  had  not  yet  the  approbation  of  Colonel 
liivingston  to  their  tacit  engagement.  Both  were  sanguine, 
however,  and  Cora  knew  how  well  her  father  loved  her. 
Could  he  then  fail  to  secure  her  happiness  ?  She  scarcely 
doubted,  and  when  Wilton  read  in  her  blue  eyes  all  the  hope 
they  expressed,  his  own  faith  was  strong,  that  he  could  over 


Isora's    Child.  247 

come  the  prejudices  of  the  Colonel.  ^Mrs.  Livingston  asked 
no  questions  on  their  return,  and  they  were  spared  giving  her 
the  mortifying  intelligence  that  they  had  been  to  look  up  the 
old  governess  of  her  daughter. 

The  very  happy  day  was  now  over,  and  Cora  went  to  sleep, 
resolving  that  in  the  proposed  jaunt  to  Rosehill,  she  should 
conduct  herself  with  cool  civility  to  her  companion. 


It  was,  as  Mr.  Clarendon  prophesied,  a  beautiful  day  for 
the  Rosehill  expedition,  and  Cora  was  equipped  and  ready  at 
the  hour  appointed.  He  was  more  than  usually  dignified  and 
polite — he  even  asked  Mrs.  Livingston  to  accompany  them, 
almost  urged  it,  and  Cora  began  to  be  ashamed  of  her  fears. 
He  never  showed  to  better  advantage  his  conversational  bril- 
liancy, or  his  intellectual  superiority,  than  during  the  ride. 
Accustomed  to  being  the  oracle  of  the  fashionable  circles  in 
which  he  mingled,  he  was  conscious  of  his  powers,  but  to 
Cora  he  had  chiefly  exhibited  the  softer  fascinations  of  his 
persona!  address  ;  but  now  his  mind  roved  elsewhere,  and  he 
talked  agreeably  on  general  topics. 

After  they  had  proceeded  a  short  distance,  some  remarks 
relative  to  the  recent  fall  of  snow  recalled  to  their  minds  their 
last  sleighride.  Mr.  Clarendon  made  allusion  to  it,  which 
was  necessarily  a  cold  one.  His  conversation,  at  times, 
related  to  topics  of  mutual  interest,  with  which  he  would 
entertain  Cora  with  unusual  spirit.  Cora  had  therefore  a  most 
agreeable  ride  to  Rosehill.  ^Nothing  had  marred  her  enjoy- 
ment ;  it  is  true  it  had  none  of  the  charm  of  her  drive  the 
previous  evening,  but  not  a  breeze  had  blown  too  roughly — 
not  a  jar  had  occurred  to  wound  her  feelings,  or  ruffle  her  sere- 
nity, and  she  returned  home,  where  Wilton  awaited  her  arrival, 
in  such  spirits,  that  the  young  lover  was  decidedly  inclined  to 
be  jealous.  One  incident  on  their  ride,  she  afterwards  told  to 
Wilton.  They  had  stopped  at  a  green-house  on  their  return, 
to  obtain  a  bouquet  of  iiowers.  While  she  selected  it,  with 
only  the  gardener's  assistance,  Mr.  Clarendon  looking  on  indif- 
ferently, she  observed  that  he  procured  a  choice  collection,  and 
in  a  low  voice  ordered  it  sent,  as  she  thought,  to  the  same  numbei 
of  the  street  that  they  had  visited  the  previous  evening,  and 
after  giving  the  direction,  he  attached  a  slip  of  paper  ta^hc 


248  Isoka's    Child. 

bouquet,  with  the  name,  as  she  supposed,  of  the  person  to 
whom  he  sent  it.  "  Can  it  be,"  said  Cora,  "  that  he  sends  flow- 
ers to  Mrs.  Linden  ?" 

Wilton  smiled  equivocally,  and  said,  "  Are  you  jealous, 
Cora  V 

Cora  laughed,  and  Wilton  turned  the  subject,  but  not  until 
Cora  had  observed  that  after  Mr.  Clarendon  had  sent  away  the 
flowers,  he  seemed  unusually  silent, 

A  fortnight  passed  away  with  Cora,  in  the  richest  enjoymenl . 
In  the  meanwhile,  Wilton  had  written  to  Colonel  Livingstoi,-., 
but  had  as  yet  received  no  reply.  During  the  latter  part  cf 
her  visit,  she  saw  little  of  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  whenever  he  called, 
he  found  Wilton  so  constantly  with  Cora,  that  he  wholly  dis- 
continued his  visits.  Still  she  felt  herself  often  watched  ;  at 
the  opera,  he  w^as  ever  in  an  adjoining  box,  though  seemin<,;ly 
unobservant  of  her,  and  often  passed  her  in  the  street  with  but 
a  friendly  smile  ;  still  she  felt  a  consciousness  of  -his  preserce, 
but  was  too  happy  with  her  devoted  lover  to  regard  the  pene- 
trating glance  that  she  sometimes  caught,  or  his  evident  cold- 
ness, which  he  intended  she  should  feel. 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

Oh!  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 
Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal ! 

Shakspeare. 

A  WINTER'S  sun  shone  brightly  into  the  study  of  Colonel 
Livingston,  where  he  sat  meditating  upon  the  probable 
result  of  his  action  against  Mr.  Wilton.  Successful,  through 
Mr.  Clarendon,  in  obtaining  the  oflice  which  he  had  sought,  his 
ambition  now  lay  in  winning  back  the  estate  which  he  considered 
rightfully  his.  He  had  heard,  through  Clarendon,  of  his  daugh- 
ter, besides  receiving  several  joyous  epistles  from  her  own  pea. 
He  learned  that  she  had  shone  in  conspicuous  loveliness  at  the 
bridal  party,  and,  what  more  gratified  him,  that  she  had  com- 
ported herself  with  dignity  and  elegance  among  her  nowly-found 
relatives  ;  for  the  Colonel  had  somewhat  feared  that  her  rustic 
taites  and  wild  freedom  would  affect  her  bearing  iu  E,ociety. 


I  s  o  li  A '  s    Child.  249 

His  thoughts  reverted  with  pride  to  this  dearest  solace  of  his 
life,  and  his  eye  kindled,  when  he  thoufi:lit  of  the  brilliant  pros- 
pects which  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Clarendon  would  afford. 
He  had  watched  them  much  of  late,  when  together.  Cora's 
oki  repugnance  to  him  seemed,  in  his  eye,  to  have  worn  away. 
He  knew  that  his  friend  was  deeply  attached  to  his  daughter  ; 
and  he  thought  when  she  had  become  old  enough  to  be  the 
wife  of  any  oue,  that  she  might  be  very  happy,  united  to  him. 
He  had  received  a  letter  from  Wilton  respecting  her,  with  the 
expressed  hope  that  his  attachment  for  Cora  would  meet  with 
his  approbation.  On  receiving  it,  he  was  highly  indignant,  but 
concluded  to  treat  it  with  silent  contempt,  resolving  that  when 
Cora  returned,  he  would  forbid  any  intercourse  between  them. 
Thus  he  pondered,  when  his  thoughts  were  suddenly  broken  in 
upon  by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Clarendon.  The  Colonel  had 
been  much  alone  since  Cora's  absence,  and  cordially  greeted  his 
visitor,  expressing,  also,  his  surprise  at  seeing  him. 

To  the  ease  of  his  accustomed  address  he  now  added  affected 
good  humor,  and  unusual  candor  in  the  exposure  of  his  inten- 
tions and  plans,  and  so  confidentially  approached  the  Colonel, 
that  the  latter  was  much  flattered  by  his  manner,  and  the  cor- 
diality with  which  he  expressed  himself.  Being  naturally  dic- 
tatorial and  imperious,  Mr.  Clarendon,  from  policy,  often  affected 
some  suppleness,  in  order  to  appear  to  yield  in  the  onset  of  an 
argument,  that  he  might,  by  his  oratory,  more  skillfully  gain  his 
point.  He,  therefore,  seldom  offended,  though  he  came  off  the 
victor,  his  triumph  being  forgiven  by  his  smooth  mode  of  effect- 
ing it,  when  another  would  have  made  an  enemy  of  his  opponent. 
Thus  he  continued  to  rise  in  the  estimation  of  his  party  and  his 
professional  brethren,  who  acknowledged  his  eminent  legal 
abilities,  and  his  logical  mind,  which  could  reason  clearly  and 
smoothly ;  while  his  eloquence  swayed  the  judgment  that  he 
would  convince. 

The  Colonel  was  fully  aware  of  Mr.  Clarendon's  position, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  blind  to  the  favorable  light  in  which 
surrojjuding  circumstances  placed  him,  and  that  one  less  con- 
Bi)icuous  might,  under  the  same  advantages  of  wealth  and  sta- 
tion, have  attained  the  same  eminence.  He,  therefore,  greatly 
exalted  Louis  Clarendon  in  his  imagination  ;  while  his  prejudice 
against  the  Wilton  family  entirely  obliterated  all  pretensions 
to  merit  or  talent  in  the  son,  in  his  one-sided  estimation.  gHe 
was,  therefore,  well  prepared  for   the   art   and  management 

11* 


250  Isora's    Child. 

exhibited  by  Clarendon,  in  carrying  out  his  scheme  of  marrying 
Cora.  It  was  true  that  he  believed  that  he  loved  the  young 
girl  whom  he  so  greatly  admired  ;  but  this  alone  did  not  spur 
him  on  to  success  in  his  purpose.  He  had  not  been  accustomed 
to  def'eac ;  he  had  prided  himself  upon  not  being  baffled  in  his 
undertakings.  His  indefatigable  labor  earned  him  as  many 
laurels  as  his  undoubted  talents  ;  and  liis  determined  will  was 
the  engine  that  gave  him  impetus,  in  defiance  of  obstacles.  His 
conscience  was  governed  by  no  moral  laws  ;  he  had  devoted 
himself  to  the  father,  to  gain  the  daughter,  and  he  felt  that  he 
had  earned  the  prize.  Cora's  preference  he  would  gladly  secure  ; 
and  he  believed  that,  but  for  Wilton,  he  should  have  obtained 
it.  Still,  he  feared  not  that  if  Cora  Livingston  was  once  his 
wife,  he  could  win  her  devoted  love.  But  Clarendon  knew 
that  if  the  Colonel  entertained  the  idea  that  he  considered  his 
daughter  property  easily  transferred,  he  could  make  no  progress 
in  his  suit. 

To  the  Colonel's  inquiries  relative  to  the  new  plans,  half- 
unfolded,  Mr.  Clarendon  replied,  "  that  it  was  his  intention  to 
travel,  and  that,  before  many  weeks,  he  should  probably  be  on 
another  continent."  The  Colonel  was  much  dismayed — his 
hopes  of  the  suit  entirely  rested  on  the  former.  He  could  only 
utter  an  exclamation  of  deep  regret. 

The  friend  and  counsellor  was  for  awhile  silent  ;  then  he 
coolly  remarked,  that  there  was  ''nothing  like  travel  to  kill 
disappointment." 

"  But,  Clarendon,"  said  the  Colonel,. in  a  tone  of  expostula- 
tion, "  we  cannot  lose  you — your  departure  would  ruin  me 
now." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  Colonel  ;  but  I  have  for 
some  time  anticipated  a  tour  of  travel.  I  may  be  absent  a 
■year.  You  can  obtain  as  good  counsel  as  myself.  Prove  the 
existence  of  a  later  will,  if  you  can  ;  secure  the  absent  witness, 
if  you  can  find  him  ;  collect  your  evidence,  and  put  your  case 
in  Rodney's  hands." 

"  He  will  ruin  my  cause.  You  understand  its  features,  and 
the  points  of  the  case  ;  and,  furthermore,  your  ingenuity  is  as 
important  to  me  as  your  professional  skill.  You  know  all  that 
1  have  to  contend  with.  What  is  right  to  possession  !  Upon 
your  energy  and  determination  I  have  placed  my  reliance." 

^I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  I  wish  for  change  ;  I  ana 
wearied  with  the  monotony  of  business." 


I  s  o  K  A '  s    Child.  251 

"Why  not,  then,  find  it  in  domestic  life.  Clarendon?  I 
thought  that  you  was  rearing  a  protege  for  a  housekeeper,  and 
a — companion.  Nice  girl,  I  hear — very  good  of  you.  Who 
was  her  mother  ?" 

"  A  foreign  lady.  She  is  not  with  me — took  only  as  a  child. 
What  is  the  domestic  life  you  talk  of  ?  A  bachelor's  breakfast, 
a  hum-drum  dinner  at  home,  or  at  a  club.  A  wife  might  make 
a  contented  man  of  me." 

"Why  not,  then,  marry,  Clarendon,  and  remain  at  home?" 

"  Colonel  Livingston,  I  have  had  my  views,  and  you  have 
knOwu  them,  and  I  have  had  reason  to  expect  a  different  turn 
in  some  matters.  Tacitly,  you  have  of  late,  consented  to  my 
addresses  to  your  daughter — at  least  they  have  not  seemed 
disagreeable  to  you.  But  I  have  no  time  or  d'sposition  to 
contend  with  boys  in  marrying.  Miss  Cora  has  been  sent  to 
town  without  my  knowledge,  which,  considering  my  interest  in 
her,  was  at  least  a  matter  of  regret  ;  but  this  is  not  all,  nor 
the  half  of  it.  I  am  disappointed,  grievously  so,  and  I  wish  in 
some  excitement  to  drive  her  entirely  from  my  thoughts.  I 
am  too  old  to  be  playing  the  fool  in  running  after  a  girl  who 
has — disappointed  me." 

"  But,  my  dear  Clarendon,  consider  that  Cora  is  young — 
never  thought  of  marrying — may  look  more  favorably  upon 
the  subject  at  some  future  day.     I  am  sorry — distressed  " — 

"  Don't  feel  so  on  my  account,  sir.  I  am  a  philosopher  in 
such  matters,  and  have  passed  the  Rubicon,  where  lovers  hang 
or  drown  for  the  coquetry  of  their  mistresses.  If  she  prefers 
another,  why,  I  have  only  to  desert  the  field."  Mr.  Clarendon 
lighted  his  cigar  while  he  spoke,  and  as  he  placed  his  legs 
across  a  chair,  took  up  a  newspaper.  Presently  laying  it 
down,  he  looked  into  the  anxious  face  of  the  Colonel,  while  he 
said,  "There  is  nothing  like  action  for  the  mind  ;  I  should 
like  to  spend  these  cut-throat  spring  months  in  the  south  of 
France." 

"  But  this  determination  is  very  sudden,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  So  is  my  disappointment  sudden." 

"  Did  you  go  to  Rosehill  with  my  daughter  ?" 

"  I  did,  and  then  delivered  her  into  the  care  of  her  new 
f^uardian," 

"  What  new  guardian  ?"  said  the  Colonel  alarmed.  "  She 
is,  of  course,  protected  by  her  aunt,  who  is  discreet,  and  judi 
pious,  I  suppose,  in  her  acquaintances." 


262  Isoka's    Child. 

''  I  tliiuk  after  she  had  delivered  her  over  to  this  young 
gentleman-loafer,  Wilton,  she  feels  that  she  has  done  lier  duty ; 
but,  if  she  was  not  as  blind  as  a  dead  beetle,  she  would  see  the 
course  that  things  are  taking." 

"This  reminds  me,"  said  the  Colonel,  now  excited,  "of  the 
letter  the  fellow  wrote  me" — 

"  He  has  written  you — the  thing  then  is  settled  ?" 

"  So  far  settled,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  that  I  lighted  my  cigar 
with  the  letter.  I,  of  course,  did  not  notice  it — this  neglect 
will  put  an  end  to  the  matter  doubtless.  How  much  has 
Wilton  been  with  Cora  ?" 

"  Constantly,"  said  Clarendon,  still  smoking. 

''  Very  indiscreet  in  Cora — in  her  aunt.  Seems  to  like  her? 
does  he  ? — visits  the  family,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes — considered  rich,  you  know." 

"  Rich  !  yes  ;  rich  on  my  daughter's  lawful  inheritance— 
the  rascal  !  rich  indeed  !  so  he  cuts  a  swell,  does  he,  on  such 
expectations  ?  Mighty  little  they'll  serve  him  after  the  next 
term  of  court." 

"  Ah !  but  it  gives  him  eclat  now,  and  you  know  young  gentle- 
men of  elegant  leisure,  who  have  rich  fathers,  have  plenty  of 
time  to  devote  themselves  to  the  ladies  " 

"  He,  a  rich  father  !  Cora  ought  to  know  my  detestation 
of  the  race.  Does  he  visit  his  relatives  with  her,  and  gallant 
her  abroad  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  to  what  places  he  goes  with  her.     I  met 

them  in  street,  the  other  evening,  about  ten  o'clock, 

where  I  went  on  business." 

"  Where  were  they  going  in  that  street  ?"  said  the  Colonel 
quickly. 

"  I  believe  that  he  has  some  low  connections  living  in  that 
part  of  the  city,  some  to  whom  he  wished  to  introduce  Cora. 
They  could  not,  of  course,  visit  her  at  Mrs.  Livingston's." 

"  Cora  says  nothing  especial  of  Wilton  in  her  letters,"  replied 
the  Colonel  musing.  "  Visits  low  people  !  low  connections — 
yes,  yes— on  the  Wilton  side — not  on  the  Neville." 

"  Why  !  Colonel,  the  girl  only  wants  a  proper  cruardian  on 
her  first  visit  to  New  York.  She  is,  of  course,  credulous  nud 
unsuspecting,  and  easily  led  by  one  as  designing  as  old  tloger 
himself.  He  has  a  fair,  candid  way  with  him,  and  so  I  suppose 
had  the  devil,  when  he  wooed  our  mother  Eve." 

"  You  cannot  fear  any  immediate  cause  for  alarm,  Clarendon?" 


Is  oka's    Child.  253 

"I  have  no  fears  or  hopes  in  the  case.  It  is  your  own  and 
daughter's  risk;  but  I  will  bring  her  back,  if  you  say  so.  I 
shall  not  sail  this  week." 

"Defer  your  trip.  My  daughter  has  been  perhaps  fooled  by 
flattery,  but  she  will  form  no  attachment  without  my  consent; 
her  good  sense  will  regulate  this.  She  is  a  child  in  her  knowledge 
of  society,  but  is  easily  influenced.  Wait,  Clarendon.  I  have 
as  yet  thought  of  no  connection  for  her.  She  is  young  yet;  will 
perhaps  think  of  marrying  some  day.  This  is  the  same  fellow 
she  picked  flowers  and  berries  with.  He  is  impertinent,  decidedly 
SO;  takes  her  to  see  low  people,  the  young  rascal." 

"Why,  Colonel,  on  the  whole,  I  have  been  dissatisfied  with 
her  course  in  town ;  but,  as  yet,  she  knows  little  of  the  advantages 
accruing  from  highly  respectable  acquaintances.  I  am  particular 
in  my  associations  myself.  I  can  overlook  a  flirtation ;  girls  are 
apt  to  be  coquettish;  but  such  entire  exclusiveness  in  her  tastes, 
is  not.  common  in  one  of  her  age.  In  view  of  marrying  her,  I 
would,  of  course,  defer  my  tour,  and  would  consult  your  con- 
venience in  the  time  I  might  choose.  But  I  cannot  dally  with 
suspense.  You  know  my  strong  preference  for  your  daughter 
over  any  woman  that  I  have  ever  met;  and  a  connection  with 
your  family  is  also  a  consideration  with  me.  One's  wife's 
connections  is  a  great  matter  in  society.  Wealth  is  an  affair 
of  no  importance  to  me.  In  such  a  relation  I  am,  of  course, 
bound  to  serve  you.  Our  united  efforts  can  wrest  your  estate, 
I  think,  from  Roger  Wilton.  I  flatter  myself  that  I  could  do  your 
case  justice,  but  I  am  sick  with  disappointment,  and  unless  there 
is  a  change  in  my  prospects,  I  shall  leave  the  country." 

"  Clarendon,"  said  the  Colonel,  warmly,  "I  feel  much  indebted 
to  you.  You  have  infinitely  obliged  me;  I  wish  I  could  do 
something  for  you — but  you  know — one's  child  is  not  a" — 

"A  thing  to  barter.  Colonel.  No,  my  dear  sir,  God  forbid 
any  attempt  at  such  traflic.  My  services  for  you  have  been 
disinterested — wholly  so.  Neither  do  I  wish  you  to  influence 
your  daughter  in  my  favor;  such  preference  must  be  voluntary 
on  her  part.  I  have  not  come  to  urge  the  matter  in  the  least — 
but  simply  to  tell  you  that  if  she  is  really  inclined  towards 
Wilton,  and  vhe  connection  meets  with  your  approbation,  that 
I  do  not  wish  to  remain  at  home  to  see  the  matter  consum- 
mated." 

"My  pecuniary  obligations  to  you  annoy  me  much. 
Clarendon." 


254  Isora's    Child. 

"Yoa  will  offend  me,  Colouel,  if  you  allude  to  tliera." 

"How  can  I  be  otherwise  than  distressed.  My  place  is 
mortgaged — heavy  suras  are  borrowed  without  security,  and 
my  small  income  is  wholly  insufficient  to  repay  you." 

"Say  nothing  of  your  indebtedness,  and  I  implore  you  never 
to  allude  to  the  subject  in  the  hearing  of  your  daughter,"  said 
Clarendon. 

Colonel  Livingston  fell  into  a  reverie,  and  Clarendon  turned 
to  his  paper.  His  glance  at  the  countenance  of  the  former, 
showed  him  that  he  had  little  doubt  of  his  influence.  Something 
within  seemed  to  assure  him  that  Cora  Livingston  would  yet  be 
his  wife.  Were  I  more  indifferent,  thought  he,  I  '.vould  not  be 
thwarted  by  this  bold  young  suitor;  he  knows  he  is  treading 
upon  my  ground,  and  assumes  a  preferred  position,  without  even 
"by  your  leave,  sir."  Her  indifference,  vanity  whispered, 
he  would  risk,  when  rid  of  a  younger  rival,  who,  he  must 
acknowledge,  disagreeable  as  he  was  to  himself,  was  most 
assuredly  a  favorite  with  the  ladies. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  much  pleased  with  the  effect  he  had 
produced  upon  the  Colonel's  mind.  He  accepted  his  host's 
invitation  to  dinner,  and  grew  bland  and  persuasive  over  his 
wine,  of  which  he  freely  partook.  The  Colonel  also,  feeling 
doubtful  of  his  position  with  his  guest,  never  felt  more  inclined 
to  conciliate  his  good  will,  and  if  possible,  to  make  atonement 
for  Cora's  slight  of  his  distinguished  friend.  Therefore,  while 
the  latter  flattered  and  encouraged  the  Colonel  respecting  his 
prospects,  he  busied  himself  in  the  hospitalities  of  his  table,  and 
passed  and  repassed  the  wine,  until  Judy  rolled  up  her  eyes  in 
astonishment,  for  she  knew  that  it  was  the  last  in  the  cellar, 
and  that  the  Colonel  had  been  keeping  it,  he  said,  for  Miss 
Cora's  birthday.  But  still  the  wine  flowed,  and  the  host  and 
his  guest  grew  amiable,  while  the  latter  praised  old  Lady 
Livingston's  portrait,  and  talked  of  her  alliance  to  the  Scot- 
tish Mary,  wiiich  led  to  the  discussion  of  beauty,  making  the 
channel  towards  that  of  his  charming  daughter. 

*'  I  will  take  another  glass.  Colonel,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 
"this  madeira  is  superior — aroma  fine.  I  have  nothing  like  it. 
I  wish,"  he  continued,  while  he  raised  the  wine  to  his  lips, 
"  that  you  could  have  seen  Cora  the  night  of  her  cousin's  wed* 
ding.     She  looked  like  a  daughter  of  a  peer." 

"  Nothing  rustic.  Clarendon,  eh  ?  take  another — try  sherry, 
I    like    this."      The    Colonel    looked    at    the   brand;     "you 


Isora's    Child.  255 

decline — clmmpaigne  then,  I  saved  this  bottle  purposely  for 
you." 

Judy  slipped  out  of  the  room  to  tell  Sophy  that  "  the  Colo- 
nel had  drank  up  all  Miss  Cora's  wine,  and  the  gentlemen 
were  getting  awful  red  in  the  face  ;  but  if  there  was  any  left, 
she'd  look  out  for  a  drop  for  her."  This  was  quickly  done,  and 
Judy  again  demurely  in  her  place,  behind  her  master's  chair. 

"  Rustic,"  said  Clarendon,  uncorking  the  bottle  handed  hiui, 
'•'you  might  as  well  :all  England's  youthful  queen  rustic. 
Why,  my  dear  Colonel,  your  daughter  outshone  the  city-girls 
as  proudly  as  the  moon  outshines  the  stars.  She  floated  like 
a  fairy,  and  withal,  with  a  dignity  so  sweet  she  would  '  shake 
the  saiutship  of  an  anchorite.'  I  cannot  describe  her,  Colonel, 
as  she  appeared  to  me,  but  *  who  can  paint  the  hues  of 
heaven.'     Were  any  of  her  ancestors  as  beautiful  ?" 

"  One  of  them,  certainly,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  benignant 
smile.     "  Queen  Mary  of  Scotland." 

"  Queen  Mary  or  the  Blessed  Virgin  never  wore  a  sweeter 
countenance." 

"  You  may  see  it  through  a  brilliant  medium  just  now. 
Wine  you  know  is  a  great  magnifier  of  beauty." 

Clarendon  replied  : 

*"  What  cannot  wine  perform?— it  brings  to  light 
The  secret  soul,  and  bids  the  coward  fight.'  " 

Then,  while  he  raised  his  glass,  sang, 

"  '  The  generous  wine  brings  joy  divine, 
And  beauty  charms  our  soul ; 
I  while  on  earth,  will  still  with  mirth 
Drink  beauty  and  the  bowl.' 

"Well,  Colonel,''  he  continued,  "I  have  proved  the  quality 
of  your  nectar,  and  will  now  try  your  cigars,  and  remem))er. 
Colonel,  this  visit  must  be  returned.  I  can't  give  you  as  good 
\Nine.  but  I  have  some  fine  Havanas  that  I  must  share  with 
you.  Shall  we  resort  to  the  piazza,  or  will  you  allow  me  a 
siesta  on  your  lounge." 

"  Most  assuredly,  anywhere,"  said  the  Colonel,  putting  his 
specs  on  upside  down,  "it  is  very  fine  place  to  sleep — good 
bnuid  I'll  take  the  easy-chair — think  I  could  sleep  like- 
like — a  nut." 


256  Is  oka's    C  11 


L  D 


"Well,  anybody  that  speaks  to  me  for  an  hour,  must  do  it 
at  their  peril.     I'm  going  iu,"  said  Clarendon, 

" '  For  immortal  dreams,  that  could  beguile, 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle.'  " 

The  Colonel  and  his  guest  were  as  good  as  their  word. 
When  Judy  cleared  the  table  and  sipped  the  glasses,  while 
she  shook  the  bottles  to  see  if  the  promised  glass  for  Sophy 
was  left,  not  a  sound  was  heard,  but  a  funeral  note  from  the 
dog  that  whined  about  Judy's  feet  for  a  bone,  so  still  she  slid 
away  with  a  brandy  peoch,  and  custard  dish,  for  fear  she 
should  disturb  the  gentlemen,  who,  it  seemed  to  her,  ought  to 
lie  down,  they  were  so  sleepy !  Six  o'clock  came  before  the 
sleepers  aroused  to  a  sense  of  their  duties,  the  chief  of  which 
now  on  the  mind  of  the  Colonel,  was  bringing  Cora  home. 
After  a  cup  of  coffee,  the  gentlemen  discussed  the  manner  of 
doing  it,  though  with  less  vigor  than  before  dinner. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  easily  persuaded  to  remain  until  morning, 
and,  before  he  had  retired,  had  informed  the  Colonel  that  he 
trusted  that  he  should  yet  have  many  more  agreeable  visits 
with  him,  before  he  went  to  Europe. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  Care  ; 
Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes, 

As  streams  their  channel  deeper  wear. 

Burns. 

CORA  is  at  home  once  more.  The  imagination  of  the  happy 
girl  now  lingers  over  the  delicious  moments  enjoyed  during 
her  hrst  visit  in  town.  The  gallantry  of  the  many  beaux  that 
sought  her  smiles  is  forgotten  ;  the  gay  city,  with  its  brilliant 
shops,  its  fashionable  resorts,  its  crowded  saloons,  where  she 
had,  like  a  butterfly,  sailed  on  golden  wings — all  fade  in  her 
recollection.  She  has  come  back  to  her  sequestered  home,  and 
a  new  glory  seems,  like  a  halo  of  brightness,  to  invest  each 


I  s  o  li  a'  s    Child.  257 

object.  Her  father  had  met  her  with  outstretched  arras,  and 
observed  the  glow  of  happiness  that  beamed  in  every  ghuice  of 
her  sweet  young  face.  He  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and 
exclaimed,  with  fervor,  that  his  darling  had  come,  and  that  he 
was  no  longer  lonely.  But  there  was  one  glad  face  that  had 
greeted  her  soonest  of  all.  Judy  had  been  seen  flying,  like 
some  blue-legged  object  of  nature,  species  dubious,  as  she  went 
like  a  colt  over  fences,  and  a  duck  over  mud-puddles,  and  a 
scared  fowl  over  hedges  and  ditches,  to  meet  the  carriage,  a 
mile  down  the  road,  that  was  to  bring  Miss  Cory  home.  Her 
sparkling  black  eyes,  and  flying  hair,  and  greeu  sun-bonnet, 
blown  off  in  the  wind,  with  the  long,  energetic  strides,  betrayed 
to  the  eyes  of  Cora  her  wild,  but  heart-faithful  Judy.  She  had 
the  cai'riage  stopped,  to  speak  to  her  ;  and  in  a  few  moments 
more,  she  was  within  the  gate,  and  in  her  father's  glad  embrace. 
"With  her  arm  in  his,  she  ascended  the  steps  of' the  cottage,  and 
from  thence  to  the  old  familiar  sitting-room.  She  had  been 
gone  three  weeks.  It  seemed  a  year,  so  many  incidents  had 
marked  the  time. 

Her  father  drew  her,  as  when  a  child,  fondly  to  his  knee. 
She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  told  him  that  she  had 
been  very,  very  happy.  She  again  sat  at  the  table,  and  poured 
tea  for  her  father,  and  gladdened  his  heart  by  her  sweet  gaiety 
and  fond  attentions.  Like  a  happy  child,  she  related  many 
events  that  occurred  during  her  visit,  all  but  her  association 
with  Rufus  Wilton.  "  Ah  !"  but  she  thought,  "  he  will  soon 
be  here,  and  then  all  shall  be  revealed." 

After  the  tea  things  were  removed,  she  ran  all  over  the 
house,  to  distribute  the  presents  she  had  brought.  A  pretty 
cap  she  had,  with  green  ribbons,  for  Sophy  ;  and  a  work-box, 
with  scissors  and  thimble,  for  Judy,  who  clapped  her  hands, 
and  screamed  more  like  a  wild  goose  than  ever  ;  and  to-morrow, 
she  intended  to  see  old  Goody,  to  carry  her  the  nice  merino 
dress  she  had  brought  her,  though  she  knew  the  color  wouldn't 
suit  (for  no  color  ever  did);  but  this  Cora  did  not  regard. 
Her  visits  having  been  made  to  the  kitchen,  and  to  the  stable — 
for  she  must  see  dear  Robin,  and  pat  his  ears  and  silky  mane — 
she  then  held  little  Frisk  captive,  and  put  around  his  neck  a 
pretty  little  collar  that  Wilton  had  bought  him — and  never,  in 
her  eyes,  did  the  little  dog  look  half  so  cunning. 

Cora  was  indeed  happy  to  come  home  again  ;  for  although 
her  cheek  had  burned,  and  a  sigh  had  come  very  gently  with 


258  Isora's    CiiitD. 

her  low,  lialf-trembling  good  bye,  as  she  bade  her  young  lover 
adieu,  while  he  promised  to  soon  follow  her,  still  she  had  beeu 
away  a  long  time,  and  her  father  missed  her,  and  slie  knew  that 
he  must  need  her  at  home.  So  she  was  resigned  to  part  with 
scenes  of  so  much  happiness,  beheving  in  that  bright,  that 
dream-land  beyond. 

It  was  still  snowy  and  cold,  for  it  was  yet  February  ;  though 
her  sunny  nature  was  none  the  less  genial  for  frost  and  frozen 
roads. 

Cora  was  so  joyous,  and  so  full  of  love  and  kindness  to  all 
around  her,  that  for  a  few  days  Colonel  Livingston  felt  great 
reluctance  to  mar  her  happiness,  by  any  reproof  regarding  the 
attentions  she  had  received  from  Wilton.  She  had  perceived 
the  anxious  look  that  occasionally  clouded  her  father's  face,  but 
had  seemed  not  to  observe  it  ;  and  so  days  went  by,  leaving 
her  still  happy.  She  warbled  about  her  work,  bird-like,  as  of 
old,  and  again  commenced  her  routine  of  duty,  as  cheerfully  as 
if  she  had  not  spent  nearly  a  month  in  idleness,  luxury,  and 
pleasure.  It  was,  therefore,  very  painful  for  her  father  to  excite 
her  unruffled  bosom  by  referring  to  the  hopes  of  Mr.  Clarendon, 
or  reproach  her  for  the  attentions  of  Wilton. 

But  a  letter  came  from  the  former,  which  spurred  him  on. 
The  rumor  was  abroad,  that  his  daughter  was  betrothed  to  the 
sou  of  his  opponent.  This  was  repugnant  to  his  feelings.  He 
tried  to  argue  with  himself,  that  he  was  only  increasing  her 
happiness,  by  placing  her  in  a  brilliant  position  in  life  at  some 
future  day,  and  under  the  protection  of  an  honorable  and 
devoted  husband.  He  had  of  late  thought  more  of  the  connec- 
tion, and  persuaded  himself  that  if  she  did  not  now  realize  it, 
she  must  eventually  come  to  the  conclusion,  that  it  would  ensure 
her  prosperity  and  happiness.  He,  therefore,  nerved  himself  to 
the  task  ;  for  he  wished  to  settle  the  matter  before  the  coming 
of  Mr.  Clarendon  to  Yillacora,  unconscious  that  he  was  at  all 
swayed  by  the  wishes  of  the  latter.  "  It  is  for  her  happiness," 
was  his  reflection,  "  and  to  save  her  from  a  connection  that  she 
ought  to  despise,  that  I  shall  plead  for  Mr.  Clarendon."  He 
thought  of  the  disparity  in  their  years,  and  wished  that  it  was 
less  ;  but  when  he  recalled  his  youthful  appearance,  and  the 
manners  that  the  youngest  might  envy,  he  was  resigned  to  the 
difference. 

One  dark  and  rainy  evening,  a  fortnight  after  Cora's  return 
home,  the  Colonel  had  fidoreted  a  lono;  time  at  his  daughter's 


1  S  O  K  .V'  S     C  II  I  L  D  .  259 

prolonged  absence,  on  a  visit  tliat  she  had  made  to  one  of  the 
neighbors.  It  was  one  of  those  driving  easterly  storms  that 
come  up  furiously  sometimes,  after  long  brewing;  which  had  not 
been  irnmediately  anticipated  when  Cora  went  out.  The  rain 
now  poured  steadily,  without  cessation  ;  while  the  lanes  were 
flooding  over  with  water,  which,  descending  down  the  long 
pipes  at  tlie  house-corners,  made  a  great  and  continued  spliir- 
giug,  tliat  seemed  to  make  the  rain  more  plentiful  than  it  really 
was.  Sophy  had  driven  up  into  the  garret,  to  shut  the  scuttle- 
door  ;  and  Judy  had  wet  her  long  legs  and  ankles  "  soaking 
through,"  running  out  to  the  gate  "  to  see  if  Miss  Cory  wasn't 
coming,"  and  had  arrived,  wdth  a  kind  of  soft  slapping  of  shoe- 
leather,  into  the  clean  kitchen  ;  whereupon  she  was  "slatted' 
out  by  Sophy  into  the  wood-shed,  to  take  off  her  wet  shoes, 
without  much  ceremony.  But  this  Judy  cared  little  about,  for 
her  dress  was  always  short,  and  the  condition  of  her  extremi- 
ties never  of  much  consequence  to  her  ;  so  she  soon  stripped 
them,  and  patted  up  the  back  stairway  to  bed,  letting  them  dry 
their  own  way. 

Cora  had,  in  the  meantime,  returned  through  the  drenching 
rain,  much  to  the  relief  of  her  father  ;  and  being  freed  of  her 
envelopments,  had  told  all  about  her  delightful  visit — that  she 
had  danced  until  the  moment  of  leaving,  and  was  so  warm  w^hen 
she  came  from  the  parlor  of  her  friends,  that  she  feared  she  had 
taken  cold,  "  she  was  in  such  a  chill."  The  Colonel  stirred  up 
the  fire  vigorously,  and  prepared  a  glass  of  "  something  hot  '' 
(which  he  never  forgot  on  all  necessary  occasions)  for  her  to 
drink,  and  made  her  come  and  sit  beside  him  on  the  sofa,  which 
he  drew  nearer  the  tire.  "  Your  hands  are  really  cold,  my 
daughter,"  said  he,  as  he  rubbed  them  between  his  own.  "  You 
ought  to  have  known,  Cora,  that  it  w^ould  rain.  I  have  been 
looking  for  the  storm  all  day — the  wind  has  been  easterly  since 
morning." 

"  But  you  know,  papa,  that  when  you  looked  out,  before  I 
left,  you  thought  it  was  cleari'.ig  away." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  child — 1  knew  it  would  rain." 

"  But  you  told  me  that  the  old  peacock  hadn't  screeched,  and 
that  that  was  a  good  sign," 

"But  he  did  screech — infernallv,  my  daughter,  and  any  one 
of  common  sense  might  have  foretold  the  storm  ;  but  you  are 
always  crazy-headed,  and  running  into  trouble.  Yes,  yes,  child, 
I  have  kuowu  it  would  rain  all  the  w^eek." 


260  I  s  o  R  a'  s    Child. 

"Well,  and  so  it  has  rained,  papa,  and  you  were  a  good 
prophet  after  all  ;  and  more  than  that,  I  say,  let  it  rain  ;  I  love 
to  hear  it  come  pattering  down  the  eaves,  but  I  don't  like  to 
hear  the  shutters  bang  ;  they  must  be  closed  before  we  go  to 
bed.     J  wonder  if  Sophy  has  been  over  the  house." 

**  I  heard  her  go  to  the  garret,  and  afterwards  scold  Judy 
for  running  in  with  her  wet  feet.  You  have  taken  cold,  I 
fear,  you  are  so  imprudent." 

"Don't  be  alarmed  about  me,  papa.  I  am  so  happy  to  get 
by  this  bright  fire.  I  will  sit  down  on  this  low  seat,  while  you 
talk  to  me,  and  tell  me  what  you  hinted  at  this  morning. 
Something  has  been  on  your  mind  ever  since  I  came  home. 
Now  we  are  so  comfortable,  let  us  settle  the  matter,  whatever 
it  is.  I  am  a  great  counsellor,  and  it  is  an  affair  that  troubles 
you.  Perhaps  you  meditate  cutting  down  my  dear  old  tree,  where 
the  robins  sing  ;  that  don't  make  the  house  damp,  I  know, 
papa  ;  or  perhaps  you  think  it  is  best  to  sell  the  horses,  and  my 
little  pony,  the  best  and  loveliest  horse  in  the  world,  or  else— 
Oh  !  what  is  it,  papa  ?  You  look  as  if  I  hadn't  guessed  right 
at  all."  Cora  threw  back  her  still  wet  curls  from  her  warm, 
bright  cheeks,  and  laying  her  hands  on  her  father's  knee  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

"  No,  Cora  dear,  not  exactly.  Is  that  door  closed  ?  How 
it  rains  ;  but  it  is  comfortable  here.  So  you  had  a  pleasant 
visit,  eh  ?  Yes  ;  Robin  is  a  good  little  horse,  and  he  shan't 
be  sold,  nor  the  old  robin's  nest  cut  down.  Yes,  child,  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you  to-night,  but  you  look  so  like  a  cl^ild, 
sitting  here  with  your  crazy,  curly  head,  and  peach-blossom 
cheeks,  that  I  think  that  it  would  be  better  to  send  you  to 
bed." 

"  Bat  I  am  not  a  child,  dear  papa  ;  I  shall  be  eighteen  next 
winter." 

"  Why  don't  you  say  that  joi\  was  seventeen  last." 

"  Well,  it  is  all  the  same.  Now  tell  me,  papa,  just  as  if  1 
was  an  old  lady  of  twenty-five." 

"  Twenty-five  !  You  are  a  silly  child,  Cora  ;  too  young  to 
talk  to  of  marrying  ;  but,  as  you  say,  you  will  be  eighteen 
next  winter." 

"  Marrying,  papa  I"  Cora  blushed,  and  looked  into  tne  fire, 
while  she  dragged  Frisk  from  his  soft  resting-place,  with  some 
words  that  sounded  like  "come  here.  Frisk — poor  fellow  I 
What  nice  silk  ears  you've  got — good  old  dog  !" 


I  s  o  li  a' s    Child.  201 

But  as  the  dog  made  no  rei)ly,  and  the  Colonel  still  looked 
into  the  fire  in  the  same  silent  way,  Cora  grew  serious  too,  and 
her  anxiety  increased  as  the  something  for  which  she  had  been 
looking  did  not  come  ;  nothing,  indeed,  for  a  half  hour,  seemed  to 
be  heard  but  the  same  pattering  of  rain,  the  same  flooding  down 
the  pipes,  and  the  shovel  and  tongs  noises  which  Sophy  made 
in  the  kitchen,  unless  the  fire  crackling  and  clock  ticking  could 
be  called  au  accompaniment.  To  all  these  sounds  Cora  listened 
until  she  grew  weary,  so  she  looked  at  the  mantel-piece  and 
exclaimed,  "  It  is  now  past  nine,  papa  ;"  then  pushing  aside  the 
dog,  she  seated  herself  higher  up  on  her  father's  knee,  and 
while  she  put  her  fingers  through  his  hair,  she  said, 

"  Now  tell  me,  papa,  what  1  can  do  or  say  to  make  you 
happy  ?'' 

"  Cora,  my  child,"  her  father  replied,  **  I  want  you  to  make 
yourself  happy." 

"  I  happy  !  Oh,  I  am  so  now — never — never  half  so  happy." 
The  blossom-hued  cheek  grew  brighter  for  the  speech,  and  the 
lips  that  uttered  it  slightly  trembled. 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  know  that  before  long  I  shall  be  an  old 
man,  and  you  will  want  some  one  to  love — some  one  to  love 
you — some  one  that  is  able  to  give  you  a  beautiful  home,  and 
protect  you  after  I  am  gone.  Don't  look  so  solemn,  my  love, 
I  hope  to  live  many  years  yet,  but  we  cannot  foresee  events  ; 
and  now  that  your  hand  is  sought  by  one  so  well  qualified  in 
all  respects  to  make  you  happy,  why,  my  daughter,  is  it  not 
worth  consideration  ?  I  wish  you  to  possess  not  only  the  com- 
forts of  life,  but  all  its  luxuries." 

At  this  moment  the  door  flew  open,  and  Judy  appeared  in  a 
white  slip  shorter  than  her  day  dress,  while  she  exclaimed, 
"the  roof's  smashed  in! — Lord  what  can  we  do!  It  is  an 
'arthquake,  and  nothing  else,  that's  a  coming." 

"  Shut  the  door,"  thundered  the  Colonel,  "  and  tell  Jim  that 
the  scuttle-door  has  l)lown  oif,  and  then  if  you  show  your  head 
here  again  to-night  I'll" 

But  Judy  did  not  stop  to  hear  her  destiny,  but  slapped  up 
stairs  with  her  wet  feet,  and  that  was  the  last  heard  of  the 
"  'arthquake  "  or  Judy  that  night. 

"  As  I  was  saying,  Cora,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  "we  are,  a>' 
a  family,  respectable — highly  respectable — but  poverty  can  crush 
the  proudest,  and  you  must  not  feel  its  blight.  You  know,  my 
daughter,  that  you  have  always  had  the  tendcrest  care,  and 


2G2  I  s  o  E  A '  s    Child. 

that  you  could  not  strufi"p:le  with  adversity.  Why  do  you  hide 
your  head  so,  Cora  ?  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  Would  you 
DOt  some  day  like  to  marry  well — very  well — Cora,  a  man  who 
would  support  you  in  style,  such  as  you  was  born  for  V 

Poor  Cora,  how  little  she  was  thinking  of  style  or  of  wealth. 
How  little  she  cared  for  the  model  husband  her  father  talked 
about.  Where  was  her  young  heart  uow  ?  It  had  flown  like 
a  fluttering  bird  to  the  bosom  of  her  young  lover  ;  it  had 
nestled  for  protection  where  it  would  ever,  ever  rest.  Her 
breast  swelled,  panted  with  agitation,  and  up  in  her  throat 
came  choking,  rising  sobs  that  she  could  not  keep  down. 

She  thought  of  Mr.  Clarendon — she  could  not  help  it — and 
yet  she  had  not  heard  his  name.  Might  she  not  be  mistaken  ? 
She  lifted  her  eyes,  and,  with  a  ray  of  hope,  said, 

"  Oh,  papa,  my  fears  overcome  me,  of  whom  were  you  think- 
ing ? — of  any  one  especially  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  of — Mr.  Clarendon." 

"  Bat  oh,  dear  papa,  you  do  not  know  that  I  do  not  love 
him  ;  that  I  never  can  love  him,"  Cora's  whole  face  kindled 
with  emotion. 

"  Cora,  my  child,''  said  the  Colonel  Seriously,  '*  do  you  love 
another  ?" 

"  I  do — I  Jo,"  whispered  Cora,  while  her  head  again  sank. 

"  My  daughter,  God  forbid  that  you  should  think  of  a  son 
of  Roger  Wilton — a  villain,  and  my  worst  enemy  ;  no  poison- 
ous reptile  crawls  the  earth  that  I  more  heartily  shrink  from 
than  this  man  ;  and  it  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  this 
young  man  who  has  infatuated  you  is  his  son." 

"  Oh,  then,  dear  papa,  let  us  never  part ;  I  cannot  be  given 
away  to  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  oh,  tell  me  so  ;  I  do — I  do  loveRufus 
Wilton  as  I  can  never  love  another." 

"  My  daughter,  this  young  besruiler  lias  bewitched  you  ;  his 
father  was  artful,  too  :  oh,  Cora,  had  you  known  the  mother 

of  this  young  man,  when  a  girl  like  you,  she but  I  desist  ; 

this  tale  is  not  for  your  ear.  He  comes  from  a  stock  that 
inherit  fascination,  but  will  this  secure  your  happiness  ?  Can 
you  live  upon  the  property  stolen  from  you — take  as  a  mar- 
riage portion  the  estate  that  you  ought  to  claim  as  your  inher- 
itance ?  No,  my  child,  it  is  no  ignis  faiuiis  I  pursue.  You  shall 
yet  possess  it  by  the  power  of  right,  unless  he  is  leagued  with 
tiecds  that  keep  it  from  me. 

"  But  this  is  not  all.  I  hold  another  record  of  his  deeds  ;  they 


Isora's    Child.  2G3 

do  not  all  relate  to  money.     No,  God  forbid  this  match — God 
forbid  it,  Cora." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  me  all — tell  me  this  nnrevealed  mys- 
tery, that  seems  to  more  alienate  you  from  this  family  than  the 
loss  of  money,"  said  Cora,  with  an  agitated  lip. 

"  Tell  you,  Cora  !  My  little  girl — the  child  of  my  poor  dead 
wife.  I  "loved  your  mother  well,  but  sorrow  came  to  my  heart 
before  we  were  wedded  ;  she  lived  but  one  brief  year,  Ko — it 
were  strange  to  tell  you  such  tales,  Cora." 

"  Why — oh,  why,  papa — why  may  I  not  love  him  ?"  Cora 
gave  a  wild  sob,  and  again  buried  her  head. 

Colonel  Livingston  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  his  hand 
rested  on  his  daughter's  head  ;  she  was  now  on  her  low  seat 
again  ;  the  rain  continued  to  pour,  and  the  fire  was  getting 
lower.     The  Colonel  stirred  up  the  embers,  and  then  spoke. 

"  My  child,"  said  he,  "  can  you  imagine  me  twenty  years 
ago,  like  the  picture  you  wear  of  me  ?" 

•*  Oh,  yes — why  not,  papa  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  hair  is  now  grey  about  the  temples,  and  my  face 
has  furrows  and  wrinkles  ;  let  me  see  it,  Cora."  Cora  drew 
from  her  bosom,  a  miniature  set  in  a  gold  case,  on  the  back  of 
which  was  some  braided  hair,  of  two  shades  ;  Cora,  for  the  first 
time,  remarked  that  the  lightest  braid  was  not  the  color  of 
her  mother's  ;  it  was  so  woven  in,  that  she  had  not  before 
observed  it. 

The  picture  represented  a  young  man  of  three  and  twenty, 
years  ;  with  a  dignified  and  noble  bearing,  expressive  eyes,  and 
agreeable  features — the  likeness  to  the  Colonel  being  chiefly 
discernible  in  the  eye  and  forehead,  the  first  of  which  was  of 
deep  blue,  and  the  brow  high  and  broad. 

"  Cora,"  continued  the  Colonel,  "  that  picture  was  taken  for 
one  of  the  rarest  of  beautiful  women,  and  for  one  whose  des- 
tiny was  the  saddest.  Know  this,  Cora,  that  the  fate  of  Rufus 
Wilton's  mother  was  somewhat  dependent  upon  your  father. 
Know  this  also,  that  1  both  loved  and  hated  her  ;  and  that 
tlie  offspring  of  Roger  Wilton  and  Rosa  ]S>,ville  is  as  odious 
to  me  as  their  parents." 

"  And  is  this  all  that  I  am  to  hear  ?"  said  Cora,  sadly. 

"  No,  Cora,  I  will  tell  you  something  of  the  history"^  of  the 
father.  He  was  the  son  of  an  old  friend  of  your  grandfather's, 
and  left  in  his  early  years  an  orphan  ;  there  were  but  two  bro- 
thers ;  one  was  adopted  by  an  Eastern  man,  and  my  father 


204  Is  oka's    Child. 

took  the  other  son.  The  character  of  Roger  did  not  early 
develop  itself ;  he  was  a  still,  quiet  boy,  but  ever  successful  in 
carrying  out  his  schemes  ;  while  I,  with  more  noise,  but  less 
cunning  and  perseverance,  was  apt  to  fail.  In  a  contest,  either 
in  a  game  or  war  of  words,  I  never  came  off  the  victor,  unless 
through  policy  ;  he  at  first  gave  me  the  advantage,  to  throw 
me  olf  my  guard  for  his  own  ultimate  success.  My  father  edu- 
cated him  for  the  law,  and  as  a  youth,  he  was  liked  for  his  gen- 
tlemanly manners,  but  made  many  enemies  by  his  acts  of 
meanness  and  duplicity,  from  which  he  never  recovered  in  the 
estimation  of  those  he  made  his  foes,  lloger  was  ambitious, 
and  envied  me  my  prospects  of  future  wealth.  I  had  long 
determined  to  go  to  Scotland  ;  I  had  wished  to  see  the  birth- 
place and  the  tombs  of  my  ancestors  ;  I  wished  to  explore  the 
old  castle  where  they  had  lived,  and  to  ascertain  more  fully  my 
origin.  While  I  was  absent,  my  father's  health  declined,  of 
wdiich  I  was  never  informed  ;  neither  were  the  letters  which  T 
wrote  my  parent  ever  received  by  him.  My  seeming  neglect  at 
first  caused  my  parent  grief  and  anxiety,  but  sorrow  was  suc- 
ceeded by  indignation,  for,  by  his  artful  protege  he  was  informed 
that  I  was  living  a  life  of  gaiety  in  Paris,  to  the  utter  abandon- 
ment of  character  or  friends,  which  information  was  imparted 
with  apparent  reluctance,  while  he  attempted  to  cover  my  sins 
with  a  veil  so  flimsy,  that  my  father  saw  naught  but  the  '  thank- 
less child'  beneath  it.  Disease  finally  reduced  him  to  the  bor- 
ders of  the  grave  ;  his  situation  being  still  kept  from  me,  who 
would  have  flown  on  the  wings  of  love  to  have  received  his 
dying  blessing.  The  father  finally  was  brought  by  treachery 
and  falsehood,  either  to  believe  me  dead,  or  no  longer  to  be 
deserving  of  his  love.  Heavy  drafts  came  for  a  long  period  to 
him  for  exorbitant  sums  of  money,  that  the  gambler  and  spend- 
thrift could  only  demand.  Meanwhile,  the  part  of  an  affection- 
ate, devoted  son  was  played  by  the  hypocritical  ward,  whose 
power  was  magical  over  those  on  whom  he  wished  to  exercise 
it,  and  wholly  subduing  to  the  nature  of  a  feeble  dying  man. 
I  was  then  affianced  to  a  beautiful  girl,  of  whom  I  can  say  little 
now  ;  I  had  left  her,  strong  in  love  and  faith  in  my  fidelity  to 
her, — but  I  never  saw  her  again  until  after  her  marriage  to 
another.  I  had  been  absent  a  year,  and  became  at  times 
frantic  with  the  silence  of  those  I  had  left  at  home,  and  fearing 
death  or  disaster,  returned  unexpectedly  to  all.  I  found  that 
I  had  been  considered  worthless  and  an  outcast.    Bv  the  terms 


I  s  o  R  a'  s    Child.  2G5 

of  his  will,  my  father  had  disinherited  me,  and  given  Roger 
Wilton  his  whole  estate.  But  I  returned,  not  too  late  to 
recover  the  old  man's  confidence,  to  receive  his  dying  blessing, 
and  by  another  will,  which  he  directed  in  his  last  moments,  my 
rights  were  restored.  He  died  immediately  after  affixing  to  it 
his  trembling  signature.  I  was,  however,  but  partially  avenged  ; 
I  inquired  for  her  whom  I  had  left,  as  my  heart's  fondest  trea- 
sure,— they  told  me  that  she  was  the  newly  wedded  wife  of 
Roger  Wilton,  The  excitement  of  those  terrible  moments 
come  over  me  even  now  ;  I  fell  insensible  by  the  corpse  of  my 
father,  and  was  carried  to  the  bed  from  which  I  did  not  rise  lor 
the  period  of  a  month.  Roger  Wilton  appeared,  at  that  moment 
so  critical  to  me,  beside  the  dead  father,  and  his  now  senseless 
heir.  Witnesses  procured  in  those  hurried  moments,  proved 
unworthy  of  their  trust,  and  they  yielded  to  the  bribery  of  the 
Satan  wdio  tempted  them  to  flee.  The  will  was  sought  for  at 
the  proper  time — none  was  found  but  the  one  that  bestowed 
the  estate  upon  Roger  Wilton." 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful  I"  murmured  Cora,  "  tell  me  now 
of  my  mother,  dear  papa  ?"  The  weeping  girl  spoke  trem- 
blingly. 

"  Would  that  I  had  never  known  but  her  !  She  was  a 
second  cousin,  and  an  angel  in  goodness  and  beauty." 

"  Where  were  the  witnesses  to  this  will,  papa  ?" 

"I  know  not  where  they  went,  my  daughter.  On  the 
recovery  of  my  reason,  they  could  not  be  found,  and  my  story 
was  not  believed.  I  had  but  a  few  short  hours  to  establish 
my  innocence,  and  to  reinstate  myself  in  his  confidence, 
before  he  hastened  to  repair  the  injury  by  calling  these  wit- 
nesses and  executing  a  new  will,  restoring  to  me  the  inheritance, 
and  soon  after  I  received  his  dying  blessing." 

"  Did  you  not  meet  Mr.  Wilton  after  your  recovery  ?" 

"  Yes,  Cora,  and  that  meeting  he  will  never  forget.  Since 
that  day  we  have  been  foes." 

"  Oh,  tell  me  of  that  young  girl,"  said  Cora. 

"  Oh,  she  is  buried  in  my  memory  with  the  things  of  the 
past — no,  dear  Cora,  we  will  talk  of  brighter  things  than  my 
life  can  picture — of  a  marriage  which  will  place  you  beyond 
the  contingencies  of  my  uncertain  fort-.iu'is  Can  you  not 
think  now  favorably  of  this  connection  with  Mr.  Claren- 
don ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  cannot — no,  no,  I  cannot,'   Cora's  eyes  betrayed 

12 


266  I  s  o  li  a'  s    Child. 

the  feeling  with  which  she  spoke.  She  had,  for  the  first  time, 
realized  the  pecuuiary  situation  of  her  father,  when  for  the 
sake  of  wealth  he  had  almost  blinded  himself  to  her  happiness. 
For  seventeen  years  she  had  been  the  comfort  and  joy  of  his 
heart  ;  and  now  he  was  willinir  to  part  with  her,  that  slie 
might  be  rich,  and  possess  the  comfort  which  perhaps  he  could 
poorly  provide  for  her.  She  shut  her  eyes,  and  thought  how 
terrible  was  the  sacrifice  he  asked.  Her  father  saw  how 
deeply  she  grieved,  and  inquired  "  If  it  was  a  dislike  of  Mr. 
Clarendon,  or  her  love  for  Wilton,  that  made  her  un- 
happy ?" 

"  Oh,  both,  pnpa,"  whispered  Cora  ;  "  thank  God,  tlie  son 
is  not  like  the  father.  Oh,  he  is  noble,  he  is  good.  Oh,  will 
you  not  make  your  child  happy  ?" 

"  Go  to  bed  now,  my  child — you  shall  not  marry  against 
your  will — your  agitation  distresses  me.  Try  to  sleep.  Kiss 
me,  darling — good  night." 

Cora  dried  her  tears  and  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 

After  Cora's  departure.  Colonel  Livingston  raked  over  the 
ashes  on  the  hearth,  and  leaning  forward  on  the  mantel-piece, 
sat  long  in  deep  thought.  He  then  took  a  lamp  and  proceeded 
to  his  own  room.  Stepping  very  softly,  lest  he  should  be 
heard,  he  first  looked  out  upon  the  dark  night,  and  heard  the 
pattering  of  the  rain,  which  seemed  more  gloomy  to  him  now 
that  he  was  alone;  but  the  fire  was  yet  flickering  on  the  hearth 
of  his  chamber,  and  he  returned  to  that,  as  the  most  cheerful 
view.  He  felt  then  a  little  worried  about  Cora,  and  slid 
quietly  to  her  door.  She  had  left  it  ajar,  and  he  looked  in  ; 
she  was  leaning  her  head  on  her  hands  by  the  bureau,  at  which 
she  stood.  The  sight  of  her  pensive  attitude  troubled  him, 
and  he  opened  the  door,  and  calh-d  the  gentle  girl  by  name. 
She  came  forward,  when  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  Cora 
laid  her  head  against  her  father's  breast,  and  sobbed  like  a 
child.  He  placed  his  hands  on  her  golden  curls,  and  then 
held  her  again  fondly  to  his  heart. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  my  daughter,"  said  he,  "  God  knows  I 
feel  for  you.  Let  your  poor  heart  rest  ;  you  shall  never  be 
urged  to  marry,  where  you  cannot  give  it  to  the  husband  that 
you  wed." 

"  Dear,  dear  papa,"  said  Cora,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and 
her  voice  choked  with  sobs,  "  I  am  very  sad  to-night." 

"  Don't  feel  so  lon2;er.     I  will  tell  Mr.  Clarendon  that  you 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  267 

reject   him  ;    so    now   be   quiet,    darling,    all   shall   be   right 
there." 

The  parting  was  renewed,  when  the  Colonel  went  again  to 
his  chamber.  Cora  had  promised  to  go  to  bed,  and  he  was 
comforted.  After  closing  his  door,  and  for  the  first  time  lock- 
ing it,  he  looked  stealthily  about  him,  and  then  went  to  an  old 
trunk  of  papers  ;  far  down  beneath  the  pile  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  a  small,  red  morocco  miniature  case  ;  he  looked  around 
him  again,  and  opened  it,  brushed  the  ivory,  and  seated  him- 
self by  the  light,  wiped  his  glasses,  adjusted  them,  and  looked 
upon  tlie  picture  it  contained,  with  eagerness.  It  was  a  like- 
ness of  a  beautiful  girl  with  chestnut-colored  hair,  eloquent 
dark  eyes,  and  a  mouth  of  rare  sweetness  of  expression.  The 
head  of  the  lady  sat  proudly  erect  on  a  pair  of  perfect  shoulders. 
The  artist  had  painted  the  whole  with  life-like  expression. 
This  picture  he  had  not  looked  upon  for  many  years.  He 
viewed  it  long.  He  was  again  with  Rosa  Neville,  Edward 
Livingston  was  no  longer  the  silver-haired  Colonel,  with  the 
pencilled  brow  and  stern,  cold  aspect  ;  he  had  gone  back  for 
the  space  of  five-and-twenty  years  ;  he  was  lost  in  a  dream  of 
the  past.  He  did  not,  however,  "  press  it  to  his  lips  " — he  had 
no  fancy  for  kissing  cold  ivory — but  he  gazed  upon  it  as  though 
it  stirred  up  his  old  fresh  soul  within  him,  and  renewed  the 
youth  now  gone  with  the  love  that  had  once  been  his  life.  An 
hour  or  more  he  held  it,  while  the  lamp  grew  dim,  and  the  rain 
drops  fell,  and  the  blaze  burned  blue,  making  more  sad  to  look 
upon  the  long-buried  relic.  But  he  felt  that  it  had  no  place 
among  the  things  of  life,  and  to  its  grave  he  would  reconsign 
it.  Again  he  put  it  far  down  among  the  old  yellow  papers,  in 
the  old  brass-nailed  trunk,  which  he  locked  securely. 

Before  going  to  bed,  Edward  Livingston  looked  at  himself 
in  the  glass,  and  as  he  did  so,  felt  that  his  ace,  with  its  deep 
lines  and  grey  earlocks,  was  a  poor  match  for  the  young  face 
that  he  hail  just  hid  away. 

"  And  1  have  kept  this  picture,"  he  said,  "  through  so  many 
years  !  Where,  oh  God  !  is  the  original  now  ?  If  through 
me  she  has  suffered  poverty — privation — how  great  is  my  crime  I 
May  Heaven  iiave  preserved  thee,  unparalleled  Rosa  1"  Was 
this  secret  interview  unnatural  or  marvellous  in  a  man  of  nine- 
and  forty  yeans?  Those  wlio  can  look  back  into  life's  vista 
thus  far  can  best  answer.  Can  tkey  say  that  the  silent,  lonelv 
hour  never  wings  them  on  the  same  swift  journey — takes  them 


268  Isoka's    Child. 

from  the  railroad  of  dust  and  strife — over  fields  of  green,  under 
skies  of  azure — bj  the  sound  of  murmuring  streams,  where 
they  first  drank  life's  choicest  nectar  ?  May  not  also  the  man 
whose  life  is  spent  in  that  which  satisfieth  not,  in  the  dusky 
hour  of  twilight — in  the  silence  of  midnight — even  in  the  broad 
glare  of  day,  among  a  circle  that  call  him  father  and  husband, 
take  a  quiet,  stealthy  trip  to  dreamland,  and  in  love's  first 
delirium,  live  o'er  again  moments  unforgotten,  though  the  fair 
girl  that  makes  up  his  ideal  is  not  his  own  faithful  wife  ;  but 
like  the  interview  of  Edward  Livingston,  with  his  long-buried 
love,  the  door  of  his  dormitory  must  be  shut,  while  in  dreamy 
silence,  they  pass  the  flowery  portal. 

Cora  had  a  sleepless  night  ;  her  free,  bounding  step  was 
now  slow  and  pensive,  as  she  came  over  the  staircase  to  meet 
her  father.  The  rain-storm  was  over,  and  the  clouds  in  the 
west  were  breaking  away,  showing  patches  of  blue,  and  those 
that  hung  heavily  yet  in  the  east,  had  a  silver  edge.  It  was, 
however,  a  lowery  morning,  in-doors  and  out,  and  although 
Cora  found  everything  bright,  nice,  and  comfortable  in  the 
parlor,  for  Judy  improved  in  her  part  of  the  housekeeping  daily, 
still  the  clouds  of  disappointment  hung  heavily  over  her  spirit. 
But  yesterday  she  awoke  to  feel  the  gladness  of  a  mere  exist- 
ence,— she  cared  little  whether  the  sky  was  blue,  or  the  beau- 
tiful rain-drops  fell,  for  around  her  were  ever  brilliant  the  hues 
of  the  rainbow.  It  was  not  that  the  morning  beams  were 
always  bright,  that  the  moon  ever  shone  in  undimmed  splendor, 
and  that  at  the  star-lit  hour  sweeter  fragrance  went  up  to  hea- 
ven around  Cora's  bower-like  home,  but  her  once  bright  spirit 
seemed  to  bathe  itself  in  liquid  gladness. 

But  this  morning,  for  the  first  time,  her  sweet  playfulness 
had  vanished,  the  very  hair  on  her  forehead  seemed  to  wave 
less  gaily,  and  her  eyes  had  a  clear,  pellucid  look,  beneath  their 
heavy  lids,  that  spoke  of  a  night  of  tears  and  suffering.  Yet  she 
met  her  father  with  a  tender  smile,  and  his  morning  kiss  was 
affectionately  returned.  She  listens  patiently  to  Sophy's 
account  of  the  disasters  of  the  last  mght's_  storm,  of  all  the 
leakings  and  drippings,  of  the  broken  scuttle-door, — and  worse 
than  all,  of  the  "  dreadful  actions"  of  Judy,  who  "  tracked  in  and 
out  in  the  wet,  worse  than  an  Irish  child,  letting  in  more  water 
than  she  left  outside." 

But  to  all  this  she  seemed  to  listen,  and  even  told  Judy  that 
she  must  not  be  so  careless  ;  and  Judy  saw  at  a  glance  that 


Child.  269 

"  Miss  Cory  was  not  well  ;"  so  she  made  no  reply  to  Sophy,  not 
even  a  slant  on  "  niggers  in  general,"  but  kept  her  black  eyes  on 
her  young  mistress  when  she  went  into  the  kitchen,  wondering 
what  could  be  the  matter.  But  she  soon  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  she  took  cold  going  to  the  party  in  the  rain,  and  that 
it  was  no  wonder,  such  an  "  awful  night !" 

Cora  was  not  distressed  about  her  father's  inclination, 
that  she  should  marry  Mr.  Clarendon,  for  this  she  thought  she 
could  easily  overcome  ;  but  that  he  should  deem  it  desirable, 
in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  for  her  to  seek  for  wealth  in  a  mar- 
riage, distressed  and  grieved  her,  and,  more  than  all,  crushing  to 
her  heart  was  his  utter  refusal  of  the  suit  of  her  beloved  Wilton. 

She  thought  with  pain,  for  the  first  time  of  their  poverty,  or 
limited  circumstances.  She  had  heard  some  talk  of  mortgages 
and  sales,  but  regarded  it  as  the  common  talk  of  business  men  ; 
but  she  now  thought  of  these  conversations  in  a  different  light  ; 
she  now  knew  why  her  father  was  so  often  downcast,  and  that 
heavy  debts  were  pressing  upon  him  ;  but  then  she  wondered 
why  he  had  been  so  regardless  of  expense  in  all  that  gave  her 
gratification, — and  more  than  all,  why  he  had  suffered  the  pur- 
chase of  such  extravagant  dresses  for  her  brief  visit  in  town, 
when  he  knew  that  she  would  be  as  well  suited  with  simplicity. 
Even  with  her  youth  and  experience,  she  saw  how  wrong,  how 
useless,  and  how  wicked,  was  the  outlay  of  money  which  they 
could  so  ill  afford  to  spend  ;  and  especially,  how  wrong  it  was 
to  incur  debt  for  such  luxuries  as  afforded  them  no  real  happi- 
ness. Poor  Cora  sighed,  as  she  had  often  done,  and  for  the 
same  reason — she  saw  that  pride  was  the  basis  of  all  their 
pecuniary  troubles  and  that  it  might  occasion  them  deeper 
trials  than  they  had  yet  known. 

She  now  for  the  first  time  feared,  that  to  Mr.  Clarendon  her 
father  was  deeply  indebted,  else  why,  she  asked  herself,  had 
letters  and  visits  received  from  him,  appeared  so  sensibly  to 
relieve  his  spirits  ? 

She  thought  that  it  would  be  a  dreadful  sacrifice  to  herself 
and  to  her  father,  to  give  up  dear  Yillacora,  her  old  sweet 
robin  bower,  her  childhood's  home, — but  how  much  better  to 
do  this,  to  even  struggle  with  poverty,  than  to  be  so  heavily 
indebted,  without  the  hope  of  payment  ;  then,  too,  tliere  was, 
she  thought,  in  her  father's  mind,  this  long  deferred  hope,  but 
was  it  not,  she  asked  herself,  a  mere  dream,  and  would  it  not 
prove  as  delusive.    She  tried  to  think  what  she  cunld  do  to  aid 


270  Isoea's    Child. 

him,  and  if  she  exerted  Lerself  in  some  way,  whether  with  their 
present  income,  and  such  economy  as  she  had  never  practised, 
that  he  might  not  pay  his  debts,  and  in  another  liome,  Hve 
comfortably.  Cora  was  ill  prepared  for  such  a  change,  but  it 
seemed  a  delightful  alternative  to  that  of  marrying  her  bene- 
factor. 

But  while  in  imagination  she  had  levelled  almost  every  bar- 
rier which  stood  in  the  way  of  an  honorable  independence, 
without  retaining  their  place,  she  encountered  one  difficulty 
which  she  could  not  surmount.  Her  father's  pride  again  rose 
in  the  conflict  ;  how  could  he  live  in  an  humble  abode,  and  not 
feel  the  wormwood  of  gall  and  bitterness  ?  She  knew  that  he 
felt  humiliation  in  their  present  sweet  home,  for  he  laid  claim 
to  a  prouder  one,  the  seat  of  his  fathers.  For  the  first  time 
she  felt  how  shallow  was  the  source  on  which  they  were  sus- 
tained ;  she  knew  that  her  father's  slender  income  afforded 
them  now  their  chief  support,  and  that  he  was  liable  at  auy  day 
to  lose  that  dependence.  She  now  felt  that  he  had  been 
deeply  wronged,  and  her  heart  went  out  in  .love  and  pity  for 
him.  Cora  felt  a  willingness  to  suffer  even  privation  for  him, 
and  a  consciousness  that  they  ought  long  since  to  have  reduced 
their  expenses,  and  have  prevented  the  accumulation  of  debt, 
the  amount  of  which,  she  knew  little  of,  for  delusive  and 
chimerical  seemed  to  her  the  hopes  on  which,  for  more  than 
twenty-five  years,  her  father  had  been  sustained.  She  feared 
that  heavy  sums  had  been  borrowed  already,  and  that  Mr. 
Clarendon  was  their  chief  creditor.  She  dared  not  approach 
her  parent  on  this  subject  ;  she  had  been  always  kept  blind- 
folded to  these  matters,  and  now  feared  that  she  should  shock 
him  by  an  allusion  to  them.  She  could  commune  with  no  one 
in  her  troubles,  which  made  her  more  miserable  Cora  also 
knew  that  Wilton  would  soon  come  home,  and  seek  her  father  ; 
she  had  no  way  to  warn  him,  and  she  feared  painfully  the 
result  of  a  renewed  application,  after  the  neglect  which  his 
letter  had  received  at  his  hands. 

"  Perhaus,"  murmured  Cora,  "  it  is  for  my  sake  that  papa 
clings  to  Villacora,  and  that  false  appearances  are  kept  up  to 
save  me  pain  and  mortification  ;  he  thinks  that  1  have  not 
philosophy  enough  to  enable  me  to  sustain  the  loss."  Cora 
looked  out  from  her  window  upon  the  now  desolate  grounds  of 
her  home,  as  each  sacred  stepping-stone  by  which  she  had 
marked   her   years   since   infancy,  and  tears  dropped  at  the 


I  s  0  K  a'  s    Child.  271 

thought  of  tlie  place  froing  into  other  hands.  Yet,  she  believed 
that,  if  it  was  necessary,  she  could  cheerfully  resign  it,  and  live 
happily  elsewhere,  if  her  father  had  only  equal  fortitude.  By 
sudden  light,  she  saw  how  frail  had  been  the  pillar  against 
which  they  leaned, — that  pride  had  been  their  great  support. 
She  knew  that  it  greatly  aided  in  making  their  hearth  hos- 
pitable, that  it  had  kept  the  old  family  silver  bright,  and  the 
venerated  family  pictures  free  from  dust  or  stain  ;  that  it 
brought  the  choicest  wines  to*  her  father's  table,  and  furnished 
his  guests  with  such  viands  as  their  limited  circumstances  could 
not  have  afforded. 

How  respectable  and  elegant,  also,  had  ever  been  the 
personal  appearance  of  her  father  ;  for  who  wore  finer  broad- 
cloth, or  more  spotless  linen  ?  On  his  gold  sleeve-buttons 
figured  the  family  crest,  and  the  head  of  his  gold-mounted 
cane  bore  the  same  impress,  above  the  initials  of  his  name. 
Cora  knew  with  what  little  fortitude  her  parent  could  bear  a 
descent  on  the  ladder  of  fortune — what  a  wild  dream  his  life 
must  have  been,  and  how  much  happier  would  have  been  his 
fate,  had  he  actively  employed  himself  in  some  honorable  and 
lucrative  business,  instead  of  wasting  the  remnant  of  her 
mother's  little  fortune,  while  indulging  in  visionary  hopes  of  com- 
ing prosperity.  She  had  become,  in  a  few  brief  hours,  older  and 
wiser  in  her  views,  and  revolved  in  her  mind  the  dilemma  in 
which  she  was  placed,  and  how  she  could  best  extricate  herself 
without  serious  injury  to  her  father.  She  saw  now  that  she 
was  the  magnet  that  drew  Mr.  Clarendon  to  Yillacora,  and 
if  the  expectation  of  winning  her  hand  had  been  his  real  aim 
in  assisting  her  father,  that  her  own  position  was  embarrassing 
in  the  extreme.  She  resolved  to  talk  to  the  latter,  and  induce 
him  to  reveal  frankly  to  her  the  state  of  his  affairs,  and  to 
show  him  that  she  was  able  to  endure  much — everything  for 
his  sake,  and  to  clear  him  from  debt. 

The  alternative  from  poverty,  that  of  marrying  his  creditor, 
brought  to  her  mind  painful  agitation.  She  choked  down  the 
thought  as  fast  as  it  swelled  up  in  her  bosom  ;  poverty  seemed 
bliss  to  it  ;  besides,  had  she  not  given  her  heart,  her  virgin 
love  to  another  ? 

While  at  breakfast,  the  morning  after  the  painful  conversa- 
tion of  the  evening  previous,  all  these  things  came  through  her 
mind  ;  though  as  usual,  vshe  went  through  with  her  quiet 
duties,  and  met  her  father's  wants,  and  answered  his  anxious 


272  Isoea's    Child. 

queries  for  her  health.     The  day  passed  as  it  began,  sadly,  and 
so  on  for  days  after. 

Each  succeeding  one,  Cora  resolved  that  before  night,  she 
would  open  the  subject  of  her  thoughts  to  him  ;  but  March 
came  in  with  its  days  of  flickering  sunshine,  and  she  ha4  not 
done  it.  Her  father,  when  at  home,  seemed  much  absorbed 
in  thought,  and  though  he  looked  more  tenderly  than  ever 
upon  her  pale  face,  still  ho  was  less  communicative,  and  she 
had  not  courage  to  approach  him,  when  he  returned  from  his 
official  duties,  harassed  and  w^earied.  He  was  not  at  home 
much  now,  and  often  remained  in  town  for  days  together,  and 
when  he  returned,  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  cheer  and  amuse 
him. 

The  early  days  of  March  had  passed.  The  fresh  grass 
blades  were  springing  on  the  lawn,  buds  were  swelling  in  their 
delicate  green  folds,  and  a  few  birds  had  come  home  to  their 
summer  nests,  (^ora  had  been  out  during  one  of  these  soft 
mornings,  wandering  listlessly  among  the  covered  up  vines, 
and  half-dead,  half-fresh-looking  parterres,  that  in  two  months 
would  be  gay  with  blossoms  ;  she  had  found  a  jonquil  and  a 
bunch  of  blue  hyacinths,  that  had  already  come  to  light, 
through  the  influence  of  the  spring  sunshine,  and  as  she  went 
on,  her  eye  caught  sight  of  some  daffodils  and  heartsease 
blossoms,  all  of  which  she  secured  as  beautiful  treasures.  But 
she  gathered  them  passively,  with  none  of  her  old  joyousness. 
The  gardener  saw  her  out  again  with  real  pleasure,  and  he 
secretly  hoped  that,  when  the  roses  came,  her  pretty  face 
would  grow  fresher  and  bright,  as  it  had  done  ;  for  all  the 
houvsehold  had  noticed  how  pale  she  looked,  and  attributed  her 
delicate  looks  to  going  to  the  city,  where  Jamie  said  people 
all  grew  like  sickly  cellar  geraniums. 

Cora  brought  in  her  flowers,  and  arranged  them  on  the 
mantel-piece  mechanically,  more  as  a  natural  thing  for 
her  to  do,  than  as  of  old,  a  sweet  and  pleasant  task. 

Night  brought  home  her 'father,  and  Cora  had  looked  for 
him  with  more  than  usual  eagerness. 

She  had  received,  the  day  previous,  a  note  from  Wilton, 
saying  that  as  he  had  had  no  reply  to  his  letter  to  her  father, 
his  case  with  him  looked  dubious  ;  but  he  begged  her  with  all 
the  fervor  of  a  lover,  to  remain  constant  to  him,  and  expressed 
the  sanguine  hope  that  in  a  personal  interview  he  could  effect 
more  with  her  prejudiced  parent.     Cora's  lip  quivered,  and  her 


Isoka's    Child.  273 

heart  beat  with  love  and  apprehension  as  she  read  this  brief 
note,  which  she  first  held  to  her  lips,  and  then  locked  up 
as  a  sacred  treasure.  To-night  her  father  had  brought  home 
letters  and  papers  to  read,  and  as  soon  as  tea  was  over,  sat 
down  to  peruse  them.  As  he  took  up  a  business-like  looking 
document,  his  look  was  anxious,  and  his  cheek  pale  with 
excitement.  He  tore  it  nervously  open,  and  perused  its 
contents.  Laying  it  hastily  down,  he  arose  and  paced  the 
room  with  a  distracted  air. 

Cora  observed  him,  and  sat  quietly  as  long  as  her  nervous 
solicitude  could  allow  her  to  do  ;  then  approaching  her  father, 
while  she  looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  said, 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  any  new  trouble,  papa  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  agitated  parent,  "go  away  now, 
child." 

•'  But  something  has  happened — you  are  distressed — pray 
tell  me."     Cora's  tears  now  fell  on  his  hand. 

"  Bring  me  a  glass  of  wine,  my  love,  I  am  not  well,"  said 
the  Colonel. 

Before  Cora  could  procure  the  wine.  Colonel  Livingston  had 
thrown  himself  upon  a  sofa.  He  was  faint  and  deadly  pale. 
She  opened  a  window  and  held  the  cordial  to  his  lips,  which, 
after  drinking,  seemed  to  revive  him.  During  their  moments 
of  agitation,  Mr.  Clarendon  had  arrived,  and  while  Cora  sat 
with  a  fan  and  camphor  bottle  by  her  fathers  side,  he  entered 
the  apartment.  He  saw  the  condition  of  the  Colonel,  and 
observing  the  open  letter  beside  him,  guessed  the  cause  of  it. 
He  had  been  removed  from  office.  He  had  known  that  his 
chance  of  retaining  the  situation  that  had  yielded  him  a  mode- 
rate salary,  depended  entirely  upon  the  wind  of  political  favor. 
That  breeze  had  now  shifted.  He  had  watched  the  vane,  and 
had  anticipated  that  the  Colonel  would  be  displaced. 

''  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  ill,"  said  the  latter,  taking  the 
extended  hand  of  his  friend. 

Cora  then  greeted  their  visitor  with  some  embarrassment, 
and  again  took  her  seat  near  her  father. 

"  Something  smells  of  camphire,"  said  Judy,  at  the  same 
time,  either  to  the  peacock  or  Sophy.  "  I  guess  I'll  go  and 
see  what's  going  on  in  t'other  room." 

So,  much  to  Cora's  relief,  Judy  came  in  opportunely,  which 
gave  her  occasion  to  turn  her  pale  face  from  the  observant 

12* 


274  Isora's    Child. 

eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  ask  the  inquh'ing.  "  little 
help  "  if  she  wished  to  see  her, 

**  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Judy,  opening  the  door  wide,  so  that 
she  could  get  a  stronger  smell,  and  a  general  look,  which 
convinced  her,  as  she  afterwards  told  Sophy,  that  "  the 
Colonel  was  in  a  fit,  and  that  the  doctor  was  a  bleeding 
him." 

Cora  accordingly  went  to  the  door,  when  Judy  asked  her 
"  what  kind  o'  greens  she  liked  best  ;  that  there  was  a  gal  at 
the  gate  with  some." 

Cora  didn't  think  much  about  greens,  or  care  whether 
cowslip  or  dandelions  made  their  way  into  Sophy's  kettle  for 
the  next  day's  dinner,  and  it  being  rather  a  premature  inquiry, 
her  reply  was  as  brief  as  Judy's  exit,  the  latter  being  in  haste 
to  tell  the  cook  her  master's  condition. 

As  Cora  returned,  more  self-possessed,  to  her  father,  the 
latter  said,  attempting  to  rally,  "  Let  us  have  tea  soon,  my 
daughter.  We  are  delighted  to  have  you  with  us,  Mr. 
Clarendon.  I  have  been  a  little  dizzy,  I  believe — somewhat 
dyspeptic." 

'*  You  look  better  now,  papa,"  said  Cora,  still  intensely 
anxious,  for  she  saw  little  chance  of  ascertaining  now  the 
cause  of  her  father's  excitement  of  mind. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  "  much  better.  You  have 
seen  that  an  appointment  has  been  made  to  fill  my  place,  I 
suppose,  Clarendon,"  he  continued. 

"1  have,"  replied  Clarendon,  "I  anticipated  the  change, 
and  used  my  influence  to  prevent  it,  but  to  no  effect." 

"  Papa,"  said  Cora,  eagerly,  while  her  lips  whitened,  "  are 
you  removed  ?"  She  clasped  her  father's  hand,  which  lay  ou 
the  sofa. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  child,"  said  the  Colonel,  seriously,  *'  the  news 
startled  me,  that's  all.     I  ought  to  have  looked  for  it." 

"  It  is  of  very  little  consequence.  Colonel,"  said  Clarendon, 
with  a  careless  manner.     "  You  can  do  better  than  that." 

"  I  only  need  patience,  I  know,  Clarendon  ;  my  fortune  is 
tardy  in  coming.  The  ship  sails  slowly,  but  will  yet  be  in — 
richly  freighted." 

"  God  grant  it,  Colonel." 

Cora  now  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  as  pale  as  a  statue. 
Such  an  expression  lighted  her  features  as  Mr.  Clarendon  had 


Isoka's    Child.  275 

never  seen  tliem  wear.  It  was  not  grief,  it  was  not  despair,  but 
more  like  resignation.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  her  averted  face, 
until  slie  looked  up  ;  he  then  appeared  not  to  notice  her,  for 
he  saw  that  she  was  grieving  deeply.  Mr.  Clarendon  had 
heard  from  her  father  of  her  refusal  of  his  again  proffered 
hand,  and  had  resolved  to  abandon  Yillacora  altogether. 
But  real  feeling  for  the  Colonel  now  sprung  up  in  his  breast. 
His  visits  had  been  hitherto  selfish,  but  his  sympathy  was  now 
genuine.  He  said  little  to  Cora,  but  when  he  addressed  her, 
his  tones  were  very  kind  and  gentle.  She  thought  that  she 
might  possibly  interfere  with  the  conversation  of  the  gentle- 
men, and  quietly  rose  to  leave  the  room.  As  she  did  so,  Mr. 
Clarendon  followed  her  to  the  door  of  the  opposite  room,  aud, 
as  he  opened  it,  said  in  a  low  tone, 

"  Give  yourself,  I  beg  of  you,  no  uneasiness,  Miss  Cora, 
Your  father  is  a  little  disappointed,  but  he  has  friends,  and  all 
will  go  well  yet." 

Cora  bowed  her  thanks,  and  passed  out.  She  knew  that 
they  were  now  penniless,  and  that  her  father  was  heavily  in 
debt,  and  actually  she  feared,  homeless,  but  for  the  mercy  of 
Clarendon.  At  this  moment  she  was  kindly  disposed  towards 
him — he  was  certainly  friendly,  she  believed,  towards  her 
father,  and  she  hoped  disinterested  in  his  conduct.  The 
thought  of  being  more  heavily  indebted  to  him,  caused  her 
much  anguish.     She  remained  absent  an  hour. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Mr.  Clarendon  tried  to  soften  the  disap- 
pointment of  the  Colonel.  He  told  him  that  he  was  aware 
that  his  situation  was  painfully  embarrassing,  but  that  he 
could  still  rely  on  him  as  a  friend. 

"  But  I  can  no  longer  pay  you  even  the  interest  on  my 
debt,  Clarendon,  and  I  see  no  prospect  of  redeeming  my 
place,  or  of  even  prosecuting  further  my  suit,"  said  the 
Colonel. 

"  I  shall  attend  to  the  latter.  I  intend,  for  several  reasons, 
to  defer  my  trip  abroad." 

"  My  poor  daughter,  how  can  she  bear  poverty  ?"  murmured 
the  Colonel,  with  feeling. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  silent.  Cora  had  returned,  and  heard 
her  father's  last  words.  She  took  her  old  seat  beside  him, 
and,  with  a  smile  that  lightened  the  eyes,  evidently  heavy 
with  weeping,  she  whispered,  "Don't  distress  yourself  for  me, 
dear  papa  ;  we  can  be  as  happy  anywhere  else  as  here  ;  we 


276  Isora's    Chilt). 

shall  not  suffer.  I  am  not  unbappy."  Mr.  Clarendon  walked 
across  the  floor.  He  felt  himself  an  intruder,  and  the  com- 
munion of  father  and  daughter  too  sacred  for  the  eye  or  ear 
of  a  listener.  He  saw  the  hand  of  the  Colonel  raised  to  the 
young  head  that  bowed  on  her  father's  breast,  and  tears  roll 
from  the  eyes  that  dwelt  so  fondly  upon  her.  The  scene  made 
him  uncomfortable,  and  Cora's  pensive  attitude  and  tones 
distressed  him. 

"  Does  she,"  said  he,  bitterly,  "  prefer  toil  and  poverty  to  a 
union  with  me  ?  I  will  watch  her  strugfjles  with  both,  and  then 
test  her  regard  for  me.  I  do  not  look  for  her  passionate  love,  I 
almost  believe  her  incapable  of  it,  for  any  one  ;  but  I  have 
set  my  heart  on  this  alliance,  and  I  will  see  what  effect  trial 
and  obligation  will  produce  in  her."  Thus  Mr.  Clarendon 
ruminated,  while  with  pain  and  mortification  he  witnessed  her 
situation,  and  saw  her  evident  indifference  to  him.  It  was  a 
great  relief  to  his  mind  that  Wilton  had  been  discarded  by  the 
Colonel.  He  felt  that  his  hopes  were  proportionably  greater 
for  the  absence  of  his  rival,  and  he  trusted  that  Cora  would  at 
least  feel  her  dependence  upon  him,  and  if  he  could  not  win 
her  love,  he  wished  her  to  feel,  to  her  heart's  core,  her  indebt- 
edness. Clarendon  returned  to  town  the  following  morning. 
Cora  was  not  to  him  the  same  being  that  he  had  seen  a  few 
weeks  previous,  in  her  joyous,  brilliant  loveliness.  She  was 
now  pale,  pensive,  and  dejected.  Too  young  for  even  sorrow 
to  waste  away,  she  was  not  to  his  eye  less  beautiful.  Her 
grief  only  awoke  in  his  breast  more  tender  interest  ;  and  he 
felt  much  encouraged  that  when  she  became  aware  of  her 
father's  bankrupt  condition,  gratitude  to  his  benefactor  would 
awaken  also  some  love  in  her  breast. 

The  nature  of  his  feelings  had  somewhat  changed  toward:' 
her.  Chagrin  and  indignation  mingled  with  his  real  preference 
for  Cora  Livingston,  she  had  sUghted  him,  and  given  her 
heart  to  another,  and  evinced  her  repugnance  to  an  alliance 
that  his  vanity  told  him  few  of  her  sex  would  have  declined — 
for  could  he  not  offer  to  the  woman  of  his  choice,  position, 
wealth,  and  such  brilliant  advantages  as  few  could  present? 
Added  to  these,  his  love,  that  had  never  before  met  refusal, 
had  been  cast  aside  as  a  worthless  thing.  He  was  more  than 
ever  incited  to  conquer  her  stubborn  opposition  to  his  suit, 
and  his  will,  even  more  than  his  love,  urged  him  on.  to  the 
iacoomplishmeiit  of  his  wishes. 


I  s  o  K  A '  s    Child.  '277 


CHAPTER  XIX 


Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 
'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge. 


"pUFUS  WILTOX  came  back  to  the  country  in  April. 
11  A^ter  Cora  had  left  New  York,  time  hung  heavily  on  his 
hands,  therefore  he  resolved  to  seek  the  pleasures  of  an  open- 
ing spring  on  the  Hudson,  where  he  hoped  to  meet  Cora,  and 
to  have  an  interview  with  her  father,  which,  perhaps,  might 
result  in  their  engagement  with  his  consent.  The  budding  love- 
liness of  nature  brought  springing  hopes  to  his  heart.  Insen- 
sibly bee,  bird,  and  blossom  affected  him  joyously  ;  and  by  the 
side  of  swelling  brooks,  on  the  tops  of  beautiful  hills,  he  wan- 
dered with  a  hopeful  spirit  ;  still  he  craved  sweeter  compan- 
ionship than  an  Eden  without  Cora  could  have  afforded  him. 
His  home  was,  as  usual,  unsocial  and  gloomy  ;  and  his  father 
reserved  and  uncompanionable.  Uncle  Peter's  pleasant  tem- 
per alone  bringing  cheerfulness  to  their  board.  His  own  room 
overlooked  the  Yillacora  woods  ;  and  often  among  the  fresh 
leaves  that  embowered  it,  he  fancied  he  caught  some  glimpse  of 
Cora  on  the  piazza  or  lawn. 

On  the  night  of  his  arrival,  he  passed  and  repassed  the 
grounds,  hoping  to  see  her.  He  had  no  idea  of  the  change 
that  had  brought  tears  and  paleness  to  that  soft,  young  face. 
On  returning  home,  he  wrote  both  to  Cora,  and  to  Colonel 
Livingston,  requesting  an  interview  with  the  latter. 

Wilton's  request  to  Cora  agitated  her  much.  She  received 
it  while  on  the  avenue,  where  she  met  the  messenger.  On 
again  entering  the  cottage,  she  observed  her  father  reading 
one  received  from  the  same  hands,  which  he  tore  in  fragments 
in  presence  of  the  bearer,  and  threw  to  the  ground.  This 
expression  of  feeling  on  her  father's  part,  gave  Cora  no  courage 


27S  Isoea's    Child. 

to  refer  to  her  own  eommanictition,  thon,2;h  she  secretly  deter- 
mined once  more  to  see  the  writer. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  now  more  than  ever  closeted  with  her 
father,  and  she  knew  that  his  canse  was  soon  expected  to  be 
tried.  He  was,  as  usual,  devotedly  kind  to  Cora,  but  had 
studiously  avoided  any  opportunities  of  meetinj^  her  alone  •, 
and  having  been  assured  of  the  Colonel's  acquiescence  to  his 
suit,  and  of  his  evinced  scorn  of  Wilton's,  he  hoped  yet  to  sub- 
due the  inclinations  of  the  cold  and  proud  girl. 

Cora  had  persuaded  her  father  to  sell  his  horses,  and  to 
give  up  their  cottage  and  servants,  in  case  he  was  defeated  in 
his  action  ;  and  she  had  resolved  to  support  herself  by  some 
exertion  in  an  humbler  home.  She  carried  the  note  of  Wilton 
for  some  time,  jealously  hid,  but  finally  came  tearfully  to  her 
father,  and  begged  "that  he  would  consent  to  her  speaking 
with  Mr.  Wilton,  when  she  would  bid  him  farewell,  and  tell 
him  that  all  was  at  an  end  between  them." 

The  Colonel  was  much  annoyed  and  disturbed  by  Cora's 
request  ;  he  thought  that  silence  was  her  best  reply,  and  was 
indignant  that  the  "  presuming  young  man "  should  ask  so 
"  improper  and  absurd  a  favor." 

But  Cora  thought  that  it  was  only  natural  that  he  should 
wish  to  hear  from  her  own  lips,  why  she  had  not  written  to 
him  ;  and  she  plead  so  earnestly  to  see  him  once  more,  that 
her  father  petulantly  consented  to  an  interview,  while  he  would 
remain,  he  said,  in  the  outer  room. 

"No,  dear  papa,"  said  Cora,  gently,  "  I  wish  to  see  him 
alone,  on  the  walk." 

Colonel  Livingston  looked  in  amazement  at  his  hitherto 
yielding,  retiring  daughter.  He  saw  not  how  terrible  had  been 
the  struggle  in  her  heart  to  resign  her  lover,  and  how  strong 
was  the  wish  now  to  soften  to  him  the  blow  of  separation.  He 
looked  again  and  again  upon  her  wistful  face,  and  at  the  work- 
ings of  the  features  so  eloquent  with  grief  and  tenderness,  and 
wondered  at  the  change  in  his  playful,  bright  Cora.  She  did 
not  plead  in  vain.  He  let  her  go,  while  she  promised  to  give 
up  Rufus  Wilton,  and  to  try  to  forget  him,  if  he  would  not 
consent  to  her  loving  or  ever  marrying  him. 

Cora  turned  sorrowfully  aw^ay.  That  evening,  at  dusk,  she 
walked  on  the  outer  lawn,  where  she  w^as  soon  accosted  by  her 
impatient,  adoring  young  suitor.  He  had  long  awaited  her 
coming  in  agitating  suspense.     He  had  heard  the  fate  of  his 


Isoka's    Child.  27l> 

note  to  the  Colonel,  and  had  little  hope  of  seeino;  Cora  after  its 
scornful  reception.  How  changed  she  now  looked  to  him,  her 
face  so  wan  and  pale  !  He  could  have  kissed  her  soft-,  sad 
eyes,  as  he  would  have  dried  the  tears  of  a  weeping  child. 
She  had  never  seemed  to  him  so  young,  so  infantile  in  grace, 
and  so  eloquent  with  feeling.  The  copse  beneath  which  they 
stood,  was  already  verdant  with  leaves,  and  sweet  with  ever- 
gTeens.  The  eyes  of  Cora,  as  she  gently  withdrew  a  moment 
from  him,  told  him  much  ;  he  passed  her  arm  through  his,  and 
they  went  down  a  path  that  led  towards  the  river. 

Holding  her  hand  as  if  it  would  soon  struggle,  like  herself, 
to  be  free,  he  asked  her,  "  If  she  had  not  one  word  of  hope  for 
Lira  V 

Tears  were,  at  first,  her  only  answer  ;  then,  as  drop  after 
drop  was  dried,  she  chokingly  said  :  "  Rufus,  v/e  must  resign 
our  dream — it  was  too  bright  for  us." 

"]^o,  my  darling  girl,  it  was  not  too  bright  or  too  sweet  for 
us.  You  are  all  1  love  on  earth,  and  if  I  am  as  dear  to  you, 
God  forbid  that  the  feud  of  our  parents  should  separate 
us." 

"  But,  dear  Wilton,  I  have  come  to  say — to  say — ■farewell ! 
Is  it  not  better  to  say  it,  than  to  write  it  ?  I  thought  that 
you  would  think  so." 

"  4->id  have  you  come,  too,  my  Cora,  to  say  that  you  are 
going  to  marry  another  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Cora,  shudderingly.  "  I  thought  that  I 
could  reconcile  you,  but  I  can't  say  much  after  all.  We  were 
so  happy  in  New  York,  that  I  did  not  dream  of  so  much 
sorrow.  I  wish — oh,  I  wish  that  you  had  not  been  a 
Wilton." 

"  Would  you  have  me  other  than  I  am  ?"  said  the  young 
man,  reproachfully. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ;  but  my  father  is  so  prejudiced,  and  I  cannot 
tell  you  why." 

"  I  ask  no  reason  why,  dear  one  ?  But  I  offer  his  daughter 
an  honorable  name,  one  untarnished,  so  far  as  my  knowledge 
extends,  and  if  not  one  as  proud  as  the  name  of  Livingston,  I 
can  only  say,  I  trust  that  he  who  wears  it  may,  by  a  life  oi 
honor  and  usefulness,  give  it  brightness.  I  do  not  despair  of 
grinning  a  fair  fame,  and  with  your  hand  for  my  reward,  what 
toil,  what  perseverance  could  not  do  for  us,  love  and  happiness 
would  effect.     No,  Cora,  I  cannot  give  you  up." 


280  Isoka\s    Child. 

"  But  you  know  not  all  that  influences  my  father." 

At  this  moment  a  sound  was  heard  within  the  bushes  near 
them,  when  a  voice  whispered  audibly  : 

**  Would  you  wed  tlie  child  of  him  who  stole  away  the 
mother  that  gave  you  birth — and  you,  Cora  Livingston,  the 
son  of  him  that  made  you  penniless  ?" 

Both  Cora  and  Wilton  shook  with  agitation  ;  for  a  moment 
the  trembling  girl  clung  to  the  bosom  of  her  lover,  then  pale 
and  statue-like,  stood  motionless,  while  through  the  bushes  he 
started  to  find  the  source  whence  came  the  words  of  such 
strange  import.  But  no  person  or  visible  thing  was  there,  and 
he  returned  to  Cora's  side,  paler  perhaps,  but  unintimidated. 
It  was  now  dark, — the  stars  were  bright,  but  night  was  fairly 
upon  them.  Wilton  silently  clasped  the  form  of  Cora,  and 
while  he  pressed  his  lips  against  her  forehead,  said, 

"  Regard  not,  my  own  loved  one,  these  words  so  wild  and 
strange  ;  I  wish  to  separate  you  from  the  jfast  ;  ]  wish  to  look 
upon  you,  my  angel,  Cora,  as  the  rainbow  of  my  sky — my  hope, 
the  promise  of  my  manhood.  Wiiy  should  the  past  affect  our 
destiny  ?  Be  patient — trust  in  me — I  will  not  dishonor  you 
with  a  name  you  cannot  wear  proudly  ;  give  me  but  the  years 
and  cannot  I  be  at  least  a  Clarendon  ?" 

The  tone  of  Wilton  was  sarcastic  and  bitter. 

"  Choose  no  model  on  earth,  dear  Rufus — one  is  given  us, 
pure  and  holy,  for  a  pattern.'' 

"Pardon  me,  if  I  spoke  bitterly,  Cora  ;  may  my  aims  be 
more  exalted,  and  I  be,  at  least,  free  from  the  petty  feeling  of 
jealousy.  A  name  !  yes,  there  is  something  in  a  name.  Cora  I 
know  naught  against  the  name  of  Wilton  ;  for  the  love  of  God, 
tell  me  has  it  ever  been  dishonored." 

"  Oh,  Rufus,  my  father  tells  me  a  long  tale  of  injury  ;  and 
he  suffers  pecuniarily,  which  embitters  his  feelings,  and  gives 
poignancy  to  his  enmity  ;  he  feels  that  your  father  has  wronged 
him  of  his  birthright" 

"  Cora,"  interrupted  Wilton  with  spirit,  "  if  he  had,  I  would 
disown  him  and  his  name  ;  but  I  know  that  the  title  to  the 
property  he  holds,  has  been  investigated  and  pronounced  valid. 
But  Cora,  some  day,  this  must  all  be  mine — then,  oh,  then,  you 
will  share  it,  own  it — can  we  not  thus  compromise  this  claim  ?" 

"But  my  father  is  so  proud — oh,  he  will  never  consent  to 
this  connection." 

"  Cora,  tell  me,  is  your  father  poor  ?" 


Isora's    Child.  2S1 

"  0  yes,"  whispered  Cora,  "but  be  must  not  know  that  ] 
have  humbled  myself  to  lisp  it." 

"  And  you — yow,  my  loved  one,  may  suffer  privation  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  this  suit  results  not  in  his  favor." 

"  And  if  it  does  not,  oh,  how  proudly  would  I  cast  thai 
inheritance  at  his  daughter's  feet.  It  is  a  princely  estate,  and 
with  it,  we  shall  at  some  future  day  enjoy  prosperity  ;  until 
then  my  resources  are  sufficient  ;  I  have  enough  to  commence 
life,  with  a  profession,  under  favorable  auspices.  Cora,  I  offer 
you  competence  and  my  love." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  see  him  you  may  overcome  his  present 
feelings,  and  induce  him  to  forget — the  past." 

"  The  past !  and  what  is  this  bitter  past,  that  it  must  come 
up  like  a  hideous  monster  ever  in  my  path  ? — the  bugbear  of 
my  childhood,  and  the  nightmare  of  my  dreams  !  Cannot  we 
crush  it — trample  it  down,  and  in  a  new  flowery  existence,  find 
unalloyed  bliss  V 

"  Oh,  Rufus,  we  anticipate  too  much  in  life  ;  I  am  now 
under  a  heavy,  heavy  cloud,  and  I  fear  that  I  shall  never  see 
light.  I  try  to  soar  beyond  these  trials  of  life,  and  in  the  love 
of  duty,  find  happiness  ;  but  I  have  clung  too  fondly  to  the 
hope  that  must  now  be  torn  from  me." 

"  If  you  cannot  soar  then  in  full  hope,  my  dove,  fold  your 
wings,  and  trust  in  the  heart  of  him  who  will  brave  all  things 
for  you  ;  who  will  love  you  through  ills,  who  will  love  on  till 
death."  The  lips  of  the  lover  again  pressed  the  cheek  and 
eyes  of  his  idol,  and  silently  they  proceeded  homeward,  their 
hearts  too  full  for  words.  The  dew  was  falling  heavily, 
causing  fresh  fragrance  to  arise  from  early  budding  things.  A 
new  moon  shed  over  them  a  glimmering  silver  light,  but  their 
faces  only  revealed  their  sorrow  ;  their  voices  were  silent. 
After  reaching  the  cottage  where  Wilton  reluctantly  resigned 
Cora,  she  entered  the  gate,  and  he  turned  towards  home.  His 
mind  was  calm,  but  pervaded  with  gloom.  The  words  of  the 
strange  voice,  that  came  upon  them  so  stealthily,  deeply 
annoyed  and  harassed  him.  He  had  disguised  his  indifference 
from  Cora,  but  the  idea  that  there  was  a  spy  in  ambush 
intruding  upon,  their  privacy,  aroused  his  pride  and  indignation 

**  A!id  had  Colonel  Livingston,"  he  asked  himself,  "  any  influ 
ence  upon  the  fate  of  his  mother  ;  had  he  stolen  her  from  her 
home  and  her  child  ?" 

His  frame  shook  with  the  power  of  his  feelings,  and  indigna* 


282  Isoka's    Child. 

tiou  was  mingled  with  the  heart's  anguish,  prodaced  by  his 
interview  with  Cora.  Rufus  Wilton  was  impulsive  and  ardent, 
he  had  a  delicate  sense  of  the  beautiful  and  good,  and  he 
aspired  to  high  attainment  in  moral  and  intellectual  cultivation  ; 
but  the  graces  of  his  heart  and  mind  were  but  in  their  germ, 
and  he  was  yet  undisciplined  for  trial.  Cora  trembled  at  tiie 
thought  of  his  now  seeking  her  father  ;  she  knew  that  by  the 
touch  of  her  finger  she  could  calm  his  turbulence  of  feeling,  but 
she  feared  the  result  of  his  temerity,  should  he,  in  his  present 
mood,  approach  her  deeply  prejudiced  parent  ;  for  what  could 
she  expect  him  to  receive  but  disdain,  and  perhaps  insult.  Still 
this  interview  he  had  resolved  to  seek  ;  he  had  made  no 
calculations  on  the  result,  but  his  heart  could  not  rest  satis- 
fied until  he  had  seen  and  conversed  with  Colonel  Living- 
ston on  the  subject  to  him,  of  such  thrilling  and  momentous 
interest. 

During  the  absence  of  Cora,  on  her  evening  stroll,  with 
Wilton,  Mr.  Clarendon  had  arrived  at  Yillacora.  He  found 
the  Colonel  alone,  and  though  cordial  as  usual,  he  seemed  much 
abstracted  in  mind.  He  was  himself  in  high  spirits  ;  he  had 
gained  a  cause  in  which  he  had  been  ambitious  of  success,  and 
which  had  cost  him  much  labor.  On  an  examination  of  the 
Colonel's  case,  his  hopes  grew  fainter  of  establishing  his  claim, 
though  he  still  gave  him  encouragement.  The  case  kept  him  in 
constant  intercourse  with  the  Colonel,  and  brought  him  into 
nearer  intimacy  with  his  family,  wliile  the  obligations  he 
conferred,  became  daily  greater,  and  more  apparent  to  Cora. 

Since  his  disappointment  in  the  effort  to  lure  back  Flora  to 
his  home,  which,  for  a  while,  he  made  the  passionate  desire  of 
his  heart,  he  had  become  more  than  ever  reckless  in  his  habits, 
while  his  house  was  a  resort  for  idlers  and  seekers  of  pleasure, 
whom  he  found  difficult  to  shake  off,  and  of  whom  he  became, 
in  time,  wearied. 

The  fascinating  guilelessness  and  witchery  of  Flora,  who 
once  lent  such  a  charm  to  his  leisure  hours,  he  had  ever  missed, 
since  her  absence,  and  that  void,  he  felt  desirous  to  fill,  while, 
at  the  same  time  he  adorned  his  home.  He  became  tired  of 
his  bachelor  life,  which  convivial  excitement  failed  to  brighten. 
He  wanted  that  calm  sunshine  that  a  pure-hearted,  lovely 
woman  could  only  shed  on  his  hearth,  and  cautiously,  but 
surely,  he  felt  that  he  was  now  gaining  his  object. 

Finding  the  Colonel  dull  and  taciturn,  he  proposed  a  game 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  283 

of  chess.  The  proposal  roused  hira  from  liis  reverie,  as  he  was 
revolvhig  in  his  miud  Cora's  infatuated  attaclunent,  as  he 
deemed  it,  for  Wilton,  though  anxious  to  keep  the  knowledge 
of  her  interview  with  him  from  Mr.  Clarendon. 

He  had  repented  that  he  had  given  even  a  reluctant 
assent  to  the  meeting,  and  grew  irritable  and  impatient  eacii 
moment  of  her  absence. 

"  Your  daughter  is  not  at  home  ?''  said  Mr.  Chirendon, 
seemingly  intent  on  his  game,  "visiting,  1  suppose?" 

The  Colonel  made,  what  he  considered  a  master  move,  wliile 
he  said,  '"  Y — e — s,  she  is  out,"  then  looking  at  his  watch, 
rose,  and  went  to  tlie  door  of  the  kitchen,  and  called  Judy, 
telling  her  to  go  and  find  Miss  Cora,  and  say  that  her  father 
wanted  her. 

"  Allow  me  to  seek  her,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  No,  no.  Clarendon — let  us  finish  this  game." 

Mr.  Clarendon  soon  allowed  his  opponent  the  game,  which 
somewhat  soothed  his  irritability.  A^  the  board  was  put  aside, 
he  heard  Judy  connng  in,  and  jumped  quickly  from  his  seat, 
hoping  to  prevent  her  ingress — bnt  in  vain,  Judy  was  too 
quick  for  him,  and  as  she  entered  the  parlor,  exclaimed, 

*  They's  most  here — they  walks  mighty  slow,  and  have,  I 
guess,  a  heap  to  tell,  by  the  way  they  come," 

"  Go  into  the  kitchen,  girl,  you  have  too  much  to  say — go 
directly." 

The  Colonel  was  alarmed,  and  he  showed  it.  Judy  had  van- 
ished, much  to  the  disappointment  of  Mr.  Clarendon,  for  his 
curiosity  was  deeply  excited  by  the  remark  of  the  loquacious 
child,  who  seemed  to  him  both  omnipresent  and  well-informed. 
But  without  paying  heed  to  the  Colonel's  nervousness,  he  took 
his  hat  and  approached  the  outer  door. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  she  will  be  here  presently." 

But  Mr.  Clarendon  did  not  seem  to  hear,  for  he  had  already 
met  Cora  ;  she  did  not  observe  him,  but  with  a  noiseless  glid- 
ing step  was  coming  up  the  avenue  ;  she  had  nearly  passed 
him  when  he  arrested  her  attention.  Her  head  was  down,  and 
her  eyes  on  thj  gravel-walk. 

He  accosted  her,  and  without  exhibiting  the  jealousy  that  he 
felt,  said,  "  Cora,  we  missed  you,  and  1  feared  that  something- 
unusual  had  kept  you  out,  and  came  for  you." 

Cora  made  some  low  reply,  while  she  recognized  Mr.  Claren- 
don, and  proceeded  more  hurriedly. 


284  1  S  O  11  A '  S      G  H  I  L  D  . 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  to  he  out  so  late  alone,  Miss  Cora  ?" 

"It  is  quite  light,"  replied  Cora.  Her  head  and  face  was 
averted — she  feared  that  the  traces  of  tears  were  visible,  and 
avoided  the  gaze  of  her  companion,  though  the  young  moon 
would  have  scarcely  revealed  them.  She  attempted  to  rally 
and  to  shake  oft'  her  gloom,  but  made  a  poor  effort,  and  met 
with  bad  success.  Her  father  heard  her  coming,  and  when  he 
gTeeted  her,  he  said  so  many  things,  and  was  so  delighted  to 
see  her  one  moment,  and  so  flurried  the  next,  that  Cora  wa:^ 
glad  to  make  a  hasty  excuse  for  her  absence,  and  flee  to  her 
own  room. 

Mr.  Clarendon  had  heard  her  sad  tones,  and  witnessed  the 
Colonel's  ill-disguised  excitement,  and  grew  puzzled  respecting 
the  mysterious  walk,  about  which  no  one  seemed  communicative 
but  Judy. 

The  Colonel  was  in  positive  ill-humor,  and  what  more  tried 
the  patience  of  Mr.  Clarendon,  a  half-hour  had  elapsed  before 
Cora  re-appeared.  When  she  did  so,  she  devoted  herself  chiefly 
to  Frisk,  while  she  seated  herself  in  a  dark  corner.  As  she 
passed  her  father  on  her  entrance,  she  said,  in  a  very  low,  sweet 
tone, 

'•  Pray  be  cheerful,  papa  ;  I  cannot  be  so  to-night." 

The  Colonel  made  her  no  reply,  but  anxiously  watched  her 
movements.  Cora  saw  his  disturbance  of  mmd,  and  again 
came  forward,  while  she  said, 

"  Sliall  I  play  chess  with  you,  papa  ?" 

"Allow  me  to  challenge  you,  Miss  Cora,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon ; 
"  your  father  has  sadly  beaten  me,  and  I  wish  to  retrieve  my 
character." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Colonel,  quickly,  "  play  with  Mr.  Clarendon  ; 
I  am  dull  to-night  ;  there  is  the  board."  Cora  dreaded  to  face 
the  light,  and  especially  to  sit  vis-a-vis  with  Mr.  Clarendon,  for 
she  knew  the  observation  that  she  would  encounter,  however 
delicately  he  might  seem  to  disguise  it;  besides,  she  was  conscious 
that  she  could  not  fix  her  attention  upon  the  game,  and  that 
she  should  betray  her  absence  of  mind. 

"  Would  you  not  prefer  music,"  said  Cora,  so  touchingly, 
that  her  apj^eal  was  understood,  and  her  proposition  acceded  to 
with  politeness  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Clarendon.  He  accordingly 
followed  her  into  the  adjoining  room,  which  was  not  lighted, 
excepting  from  such  rays  as  were  borrowed  from  the  other. 

Mr.  Clarendon  opened  the  music  and  turned  her  music-stool, 


Isora's    Child.  285 

when  Cora  took  her  seat,  and  phiyecl  at  random  such  pieces  as 
he  selected,  without  apparent  thought  or  interest. 

"  Will  you  sing'  ?"  said  her  admirer,  as  he  bent  over  her  for 
reply. 

"  Excuse  me  to-night,"  said  Cora,  rattling  hurriedly  and 
discordantly  over  the  keys. 

**  I  do  so  reluctantly,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon.  "  Perhaps," 
said  he,  in  a  whisper,  "  you  can  sing  *  The  Lover's  Adieu.'  " 

Cora's  white  cheek  crimsoned  perceptibly,  even  in  the  dim 
light  ;  then,  as  her  color  receded,  with  calm  dignity  she  rose, 
without  a  word,  and  seated  herself  in  her  old  corner  upon 
a  lounge.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the  wall,  upright,  and 
without  concealment.  Her  profde  was  fully  visible  where  Mr. 
Clarendon  sat.  It  was  full  of  repose  and  beauty.  He  saw 
that  he  had  offended  her,  and  that  she  exacted  the  most  delicate 
respect,  and  that  he  had  intruded  too  far  when  he  trod  upon 
the  ground  she  held  sacred.  He  was  so  far  right,  but  he  knew 
not  how  keenly  his  words  had  played  upon  the  chords  of  a 
bruised  spirit.  She  had  returned  from  her  walk  only  comforted 
by  the  reflection  that  she  had  obeyed  her  father's  wishes.  She 
would  have  suffered  less,  perhaps,  had  she  written  to  Wilton,  but 
the  thought  of  so  parting  was  acutely  painful  to  her  affection- 
ate heart.  Sad  and  weary,  she  had  no  spirits  left  to  contend 
with  jealousy,  and  she  returned  to  her  old  seat,  careless  of 
the  feelings  of  him  who  had,  as  she  thought,  without  delicacy, 
wounded  her. 

Her  father  observed  the  movement,  and  said,  *'  Why  do  you 
stop,  Cora  ?" 

"  I  am  tired,  papa." 

"  As  you  please,  then,"  said  her  father,  who  commenced  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Clarendon. 

The  latter  knew  that  he  had  offended  Cora,  yet  made  no  effort 
at  reconciliation,  but  with  the  Colonel  devoted  himself  the  rest 
of  the  evening  in  talking  politics.  Cora  felt  relieved.  She 
was  left  by  herself,  and  as  she  was  seemingly  unobserved,  she 
laid  her  head  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  where  she  again  and 
again  reviewed  her  intercourse  with  Wilton.  Sometimes  she 
saw  him  before  her  eyes  (as  she  sat  in  the  lonely  corner),  as 
he  first  appeared  to  her,  with  sporting  coat  and  cap,  gun  or  rod 
in  hand  ;  tiien,  with  his  own  pleasant  smile,  when  he  promised 
not  to  shoot  her  birds,  he  came  on  her  vision  ;  but  more  sweet 
than   all,  in   her   remembrance,   were  the    hours    of  ddiriou:! 


286  Is  oka's    Child. 

memory  when,  with  mutual  love  declared,  they  had  passed  long 
hours  together.  But  to-night  the  scene  was  changed  ;  sorrow 
had  cast  a  sombre  veil  over  the  meetmg  of  the  lovers,  and  the 
day  star  of  hope  was  slirouded  in  darkness. 

Her  heart  beat  fearfully  as  she  thought  of  his  again  encoun- 
tering her  father,  for  she  knew  that  his  spirit  could  ill  bear 
taunts,  or  what  he  would  deem  aspersion  of  his  family.  She 
feared  the  conflict,  but  thought  it  best  that  they  should  meet. 
Thus,  with  her  head  bowed,  she  mused  abstractedly,  until  her 
thoughts  roved  from  Wilton  and  his  love,  to  Mr.  Clarendon. 
She  had  felt  so  indignant  at  his  allusion,  that  she  was  little 
disposed  to-night  to  feel  indulgent  to  his  course,  and  wondered 
how  he  had  possessed  any  knowledge  of  her  errand  out.  She 
did  not  think  that  the  years  that  had  made  him  familiar  with 
the  play  of  the  human  countenance,  and  the  keen  observation 
that  had  perfected  the  study,  had  enabled  him  to  fathom  with 
skill  the  emotion  hidden  to  the  careless  observer.  Thus  had 
Louis  Clarendon  discovered  all  that  Cora  would  have  concealed, 
while  circumstances  corroborated  the  opinion  he  had  formed, 
and  fully  convinced  him  that,  with  her  father's  consent,  Cora 
had  been  forth  to-night  to  meet  Rufus  Wilton. 

The  evening  wore  away  in  unusual  silence.  The  loss  of 
Cora's  winning  gaiety  was  sensibly  felt.  Mr.  Clarendon 
would  have  gone  to  her  side,  and  attempted  to  restore  her 
spirits,  but  this  course  was  hardly  conformable  to  his  nature. 

To-night  his  self-love  had  been  wounded.  When  flattered, 
he  was  ever  obsequious  and  devoted,  but  he  felt  that  he  had 
now  incurred  a  slight,  and  that  with  haughty  indifference  Cora 
had  received  the  courtesies  which  he  had  extended  her.  Too 
well  satisfied  with  himself  to  doubt  the  propriety  or  delicacy  of 
his  own  acts,  he  ( ould  only  censure  the  pettishness  of  such  as 
evinced  displeasure  at  them  or  his  words.  He  was  indignant 
that  she  had  again  met  Wilton,  and  especially  with  the  knowl- 
edge and  consent  of  her  father.  He  was  puzzled  as  well  as 
angry.  The  Colonel's  pecuniary  obligation  to  him,  made  him 
assume,  unconsciously,  a  power  and  an  influence  which  he  did 
not  possess,  under  the  delusion  of  the  magnified  views  of  his  own 
importance,  inferring  that  Cora  must  glorify  him,  as  he  stood 
high  in  station,  powerful  in  wealth,  and  exalted  as  her  father's 
liberal  benefactor. 

But  when  he  found  that,  notwithstanding  the  service  ren- 
dered her  father  in  his  destitute  condition,  such  as  no  one  else 


Child.  287 

would  offer,  bought  not  one  more  smile  from  the  sad,  sweet 
lips  that  thanked  him  instead,  with  falling  tears,  he  resolved 
that  penary,  if  not  love,  should  bring  her  to  his  feet.  While 
angry  with  himself  for  the  zeal  with  which  he  pursued  lier, 
her  indifference  but  piqued  his  vanity  and  roused  his  pride  to 
conquer  one  whom  he  could  not  woo.  Cora's  dejection  irri- 
tated rather  than  saddened  him — her  smiles  had  been  his  food, 
and  now,  though  she  strove,  with  all  her  natural  sweetness,  to 
wear  them  for  her  father,  cold  courtesy  was  all  he  could  obtain 
as  a  reward  for  his  devotion. 

The  day  was  fast  approaching,  when  Yillacora  must  pass 
into  other  hands  under  the  auctioneer's  hammer,  Mr.  Claren- 
don having  determined,  unless  she  relented, .to  possess  himself 
of  the  property  under  his  mortgage.  The  heavy  indebtedness 
of  the  Colonel,  he  felt,  warranted  him  in  doing  so  ;  and  as  he 
saw  that  no  advantage  accrued  from  his  leniency,  his  indignant 
feelings  prompted  him  to  teach  her,  by  experience,  the  value 
of  his  past  favors. 

A  day  or  two  before  the  time  appointed  for  the  sale  of  the 
premises,  Mr.  Clarendon  sought  an  interview  with  Cora.  Her 
late  avoidance  of  him  roused  his  vindictive  feelings,  and  as  he 
addressed  her,  his  commanding  person  was  drawn  up  to  its 
lull  height,  while  his  dark,  grey  eyes  glowed  more  with 
triumph  than  love. 

"  I  regret,"  said  he,  "  to  inform  you.  Miss  Cora,  that  cir- 
cumstances compel  your  father  to  part  with  Yiilaeora.  For 
your  sake,  I  might  have  caused  a  delay  of  this  sale — indeed,  I 
would  now  do  it,  at  this  late  hour,  if  you  in  the  least  appre- 
ciate and  value  my  motives  in  so  doing," 

"  Mr.  Clarendon,"  said  Cora,  while  her  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
which  she  struggled  to  conceal,  "I  trust  that  I  am  not 
ungrateful,  but  when  you  lift  from  my  heart  this  great  weight 
of  obligation,  you  most  oblige  me.  Let  Villacora  be  sold — let 
us  live  in  a  hovel,  before  we  add  the  weight  of  a  feather,  to 
the  debt  that  can  only  be  cancelled  by  a  heartless  com- 
pact." 

As  Cora  spoke,  she  had  never  looked  prouder  in  her  loveli- 
iicss.  Her  face  was  ashy  pale — her  features  transparently 
beautiful,  and  her  form  more  expanding  in  its  proportions. 

"  A  heartless  compact  1"  said  Clarendon,  scornfully.  "  la 
it  this  I  require  of  you — you  whom  I  have  sought  as  "a  lover 
sues  his  idol.     You  who  have  received  devotion  such  as  the 


288  •  Isora's    Child. 

proudest  have  envied.     Well,  then,  make  that  '  heartless  com- 
pact '  and  save  your  father  from  ruiu  and  degradation." 

"  No,  Mr.  Clarendon,  ray  father  would  not  buy  a  kingdom 
at  the  price  of  his  child's  happiness." 

"  You  have  said  enough.  Miss  Livingston,"  said  Mr.  Claren- 
don, with  a  lip  white  and  quivering  with  indignation.  "  I 
would  have  saved  you  this  affliction,  but  if  you  suffer  from 
poverty,  know  that  Louis  Clarendon  would  have  aided  you. 
1  am  engaged  for  your  father's  counsel  in  his  suit  against  your 
valued  friends.  So  far  I  will  aid  you,  for  the  rest  you  must 
look  to  the  enforcement  of  the  law." 

Cora's  large  blue  eyes  seemed  fixed  on  vacancy,  but  in  them 
Clarendon  read  no  fear.  She  bowed  assent,  when  the  door 
closed  on  her  haughty,  enraged  lover. 

Cora  sunk  on  a  chair  as  he  left,  and,  with  her  hands  clasped, 
tried  to  compose  herself  to  meet  her  father.  For  herself  she 
cared  little,  bqt  she  had  refused  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  him. 
For  him  who  had  been  her  all  in  life — her  only  parent — now 
poor  and  borne  down  with  suffering  I  Was  this  right  ?  Was 
this  true  nobility  ?  she  asked  herself.  Had  she  not  better  have 
died  than  not  to  have  saved  him  this  dreadful  hour  ? 

Poor  Cora  struggled  with  her  heart,  and  called  her  reason 
to  the  conflict.  Lifting  her  eyes  to  heaven,  she  murmured. 
**  In  Thy  eyes,  0,  God  have  I  erred  ?  Hast  thou  given  me  a 
soul  to  perjure  ?  A  young  heart  to  cast  away  as  a  worthless 
thing  ?  shall  1  sell  ray  very  being  for  the  gold  that  will  buy  but 
my  mortal  part  a  home,  and  my  father  the  bread  and  roof  of 
dependence  ?  Ko  !  I  will  sooner  make  him  a  pauper.  Yes," 
she  murmured,  while  the  big  tear-drops  fell,  "  dear  Yillacora 
must  go  ;  and  my  flowers,  and  the  birds  I've  nestled  since  my 
childhood,  must  have  other  care  than  mine.  And  poor  papa 
must  give  up  his  old  home  comforts — this  is  the  hardest 
thought  of  all.  Oh,  can  he  bear  it  ?"  Cora  now  sunk  on  the 
floor  by  the  side  of  the  cushion,  where  her  head  fell  overpow- 
ered by  feeling.  Thus  she  lay,  while  around  her  white  cheek 
and  brow,  soft,  bright  curls  gathered  in  wild  disorder.  Her 
attitude  was  like  one  bereft  of  hope.  A  moan  of  anguish 
came  from  her  lips,  when  the  door  opened  softly,  and  Mr. 
Clarendon  stood  beside  her. 

'  "■*•  "  Cora,"  said  he,    "  forgive  me  ;  I  would   avert  this  blow. 
Rise,  I  beg  of  you,  and  spare  me  the  sight  of  your  suffering." 

On   the  instant  Cora  stood   upright.     With  one   hand  she 


Is  oka's    Child.  289 

pushed  back  the  stray  ringlets  that  had  covered  her  cheek, 
while  with  the  other,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the 
sofa,  as  if  to  nerve  herself  to  speak. 

"  It  is  true,  I  suffer,"  said  she,  "  for  ray  father's  sake — but 
I  have  no  time  to  grieve,  even  for  him.  Action  is  my  only 
remedy  ;  let  me  go  to  him — do  not  impede  my  footsteps." 

*'Yes,  I  must,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  standing  before  the 
door.  "  Give  me  one  word  of  encouragement  first,  Cora,  and 
your  father  shall  be  independent,  and  you  rich  in  station. 
wealth,  and  love." 

"  Mr.  Clarendon,"  said  Cora,  with  mournful  dignity, 
"respect  yourself,  if  you  have  none  to  offer  me.  Would  you 
take  me  as  you  would  a  deed  or  mortgage,  as  security  for  my 
father's  place  ;  if  so,  what  bond  have  I,  that  I  may  not  be  sold 
again  as  a  piece  of  merchandise  ?  Ko,  Mr.  Clarendon,  go  and 
seek  a  wife  who  has  more  to  surrender  yoa.  The  half,  the  more 
than  half  of  her  you  would  wed  is  gone  ;  my^  heart  and  soul 
is  in  the  keeping  of  another." 

"  Cora  Livingston,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  '*  Rufus  Wilton 
shall  never  marry  you.  Come  to  the  trial  when  I  shall  plead 
your  father's  cause,  and  exhibit  the  character  of  Wilton's 
family,  and  then  see,  if  you  will  become  the  wife  of  one,  who 
calls  his  father /(?/o;z." 

"  You  may  call  him,  Mr.  Clarendon,  by  a  name  worse  than 
felon,  and  the  son  believe  in  his  father's  innocence.  Has  not 
Gud  given  to  each  man  a  separate  identity — one  mortal  part, 
one  soul,  one  being  ?  If  so,  why  is  one  individual  to  be 
merged  in  the  vices  of  another.  No,  thank  God,  in  Rufus 
Wilton  I  could  never  see  a  guilty  parent,  though  the  world 
proclaimed  his  father  worthy  of  a  scaffold." 

The  child-like  Cora  had  vanished,  and  in  her  place  stood  the 
high-souled,  liberal  woman,  whose  opinions  were  founded  alone 
upon  her  own  convictions.  She  was  not  one  to  pin  her  faith 
upon  another's  word  ;  or  hang  upon  the  skirt  of  a  world's 
opinions  ;  in  her  pure,  guileless  heart,  her  lover  stood  stainless 
of  his  father's  imputed  sins  ;  and  though  she  believed  herself 
for  ever  cut  off  from  his  destiny  ;  though  she  had  voluntarily 
resigned  him  from  a  sense  of  duty,  she  would  not  hear  another 
cast  upon  him  an  ungenerous  sneer,  and  remain  silent. 

Still  Cora  Livingston  was  less   the  stoic  than   the  feehng 
woman  ;  and  before  she  had  ceased,  she   had   wept  burning 
ears. 

13 


290  Is  oka's    Child. 

Thus  Mr.  Clarendon  left  her,  still  unrelenting  in  her  firm 
decision.  lie  had  resolved  to  sell  the  place,  if  she  still 
remained  unconquerable.  He  resorted  immediately  to  the 
Colonel,  and  acquainted  him  with  what  had  taken  place  with 
Cora,  and  of  his  resolution,  unless  she  confessed  herself  willino; 
to  make  reparation  for  the  injury  done  his  feelings,  and  in  the 
place  of  scorn,  give  him  her  confidence,  and,  at  some  future 
day,  the  pledge  of  a  wife's  lionor  and  fidelity. 

Colonel  Livingston  had  thought  himself  prepared  for  this 
crisis,  which  he  had  seen  impending  ;  but  it  came  upon  with 
a  death-like  blow.  He  fell  insensible,  and  when  Cora  was 
summoned  to  his  side,  she  believed  that  he  was  dead.  Her 
wild  shrieks  of  anguish,  Mr.  Clarendon  heard  ;  they  pierced 
his  soul,  of  which  he  was  not  wholly  destitute,  and  as  he  caught 
a  view  of  Cora  kneeling,  in  supplication  to  Heaven,  to  spare 
her  only  parent,  he  denounced  himself  as  the  cause  of  all  their 
sufi'ering.  For  had  he  not  drawn  his  victim,  step  by  step, 
into  the  web,  from  which  he  could  not  extricate  himself 
alone  ? 

The  suffering  parent  finally  revived,  and  called  his  daughter 
nearer  to  him.  "  Cora,-'  said  he,  ''  what  is  your  decision  ? 
Shall  we  go  forth  poor  and  homeless  ;  or,  will  you  accept,  for 
us  both,  independence  from  the  hands  of  our  creditor.  I  am 
too  old  now  to  work,  and  you  are  too  delicate,  too  young,  to 
suffer  from  poverty.  Still  we  may  succeed  on  the  trial — hope 
is  yet  left  us — but  if  all  fails,  what  then  ?" 

"Then  I  will  work  for  you.  If  I  sacrifice  myself  it  must 
be  for  a  nobler  purpose  than  for  food  and  raiment,  when  God 
provides  for  the  raven,  and  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field. 
Was  it  to  purchase  an  angcPs  seat  in  Heaven,  I  could  do  no 
more  than  give  myself  away.  My  father  cannot  ask  this  of 
his  only  child." 

*'  But,  Cora,  it  is  easier  to  talk  of  working,  than  to  do  it 
We  are  neither  of  us  fitted  for  toil  or  labor." 

"  Which  is  w^orst,  to  toil  with  the  body,  or  to  die  by  inches, 
pining  away  the  soul  in  gilded  slavery  ?  No,  let  us  go.  1 
can  sell  my  jewelry,  and  that  will  aid  us  until  we,  in  somt 
new  place,  can  earn  a  living.  Fear  not,  we  shall  be  supported 
By  to-morrow  night  we  shall  be  ready.  Rouse  yourself,  dea? 
papa,  dismiss  the  servants  ;  I  have  paid  them  weekly.  Judj 
shall  go  home,  and  Sophy,  poor  old  Sophy  !  has  saved  hei 
earnings.     I  will  be  all-in-all  to  you,  and  we  will  soon  forget 


Isora's    Child.  291 

our  old  bird  home.  You  know  that  I  have  my  mother's 
diamonds,  and  our  old  silver,  which  is  mine — family  pride  we 
must  sink  in  this  time  of  trial — we  will  save  it,  if  we  can,  but 
if  the  plate  must  go  for  bread,  let  us  resign  it  cheerfully. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  aid  me  with  your  smiles." 

"  What  will  the  world  think  ?  They  will  say  that  I  am  a 
fugitive  bankrupt." 

"  No,  not  if  your  possessions,  your  all  is  left  behind." 

"  And  you  will  not  accept  the  alternative  ?" 

"Wait  here  one  moment,  papa,"  said  she,  while  she  fled 
hastily  to  her  chamber.  "  See  here,"  she  cried,  "  I  have 
enough  to  sustain  us  for  six  months,  at  a  quiet  home  in  the 
country.  You  gave  me  the  avails  of  the  sale  of  dear  Robin, 
and  here  it  is.  My  winter's  jewelry  is  as  precious  as  ever, 
and  once  started,  I  feel  that  we  shall  be  sustained.  We  can 
gather  together  what  there  is  of  value,  that  need  not  be  sold, 
and  we  will  appoint  some  one  to  take  the  remainder  in  charge 
for  us.     Will  you  go  ?" 

"  Where  ? — where  ? — into  some  dirty  country  village  1  At 
some  low  tavern,  or  at  a  starving  widow's  pinched-up  board, 
where  we  can  get  food  and  lodging  !  But  it  will  not  be  long: 
my  suit  will  soon  come  on  for  trial." 

"  But'  lawsuits,  papa,  often  eat  up  more  money  than  thej 
supply.  Let  us  begin  to  work  for  the  present,  and  if  God 
sends  us  a  store  for  the  future,  it  will  then  be  time  enough  to 
enjoy  it.  One  of  our  poets  says,  you  know,  in  his  sweet  Psalm 
of  Life, — 

'  Act — act  in  the  living  present, 
lleart  witiiin,  and  God  o'erhead.' " 


"  But  what,  child,  can  I  do  befitting  a  gentleman  ?  I  must 
not,  Cora,  compromise  my  position  iDecause  of  my  reverses. 
Perhaps  I  can  obtain  some  office  from  the  government." 

"It  is  all  slavery,  this  oflp.ce-seeking,  papa  ;  you  must  employ 
some  one  to  secure  it  for  you  ;  you  are  not  independent,  as  I 
wish  you  to  be.  You  have  education,  head,  and  hands,  and  so 
have  I,  papa  ;  now  all  we  want  is  resolution  and  energy.'^ 

"  Well,  child,  if  we  must  go,  it  can't  be  helped.  Sophy  can 
see  to  all  we  leave  behind,  and  pack  up  the  old  pictures  ;  don't 
let  thein  face  this  sacrilegious  sale.  By  the  blood  of  the  Liv- 
ingstons, I  never  thought  to  come  to  this  !" 


292  Isora's    Child. 

The  Coionei  sunk  despairingly  in  his  old  leather  arm-chair, 
and  wept  like  a  child. 

Cora  did  not  stop  to  cry  ;  she  went  actively  to  w^ork,  and 
with  the  help  of  Sophy,  who  gradually  woke  up  to  the  state 
of  things,  aided  her  young  mistress  in  her  preparation  to 
depart. 

For  two  days  they  were  very  busy,  and  were  at  length  in 
readiness.  In  the  meanwhile,  Wilton  had  called  upon  Colonel 
Livingston.  The  day  following  Cora's  interview  with  Mr. 
Clarendon,  he  resolved  to  seek  the  Colonel,  and  by  a  last  eftbrt 
with  him  endeavor  to  accomplish  the  great  aim  of  his  life. 
Imagination  brought  before  his  mind  his  poor,  loving  Cora, 
urged  into  a  marriage  that  she  hated,  to  gratify  her  father's 
pride  and  ambition.  He  shivered  with  a  feeling  akin  to  an 
ague  chill,  when  he  thought  of  the  stiff  Colonel,  and  of  his 
expected  freezing  salutation,  if  he  received  any,  and  he  tried  to 
chain  down  the  spirit  that  would  rise  in  rebellion,  should  he 
meet  with  scorn  and  insult.  He  little  knew  the  state  of  things 
at  Yillacora,  and  that  the  very  sight  of  a  Wilton  was  enough 
to  turn  into  gall  every  drop  of  blood  in  the  veins  of  Edward 
Livingston,  And  that  the  presumptive  heir  to  his  own  estate,  as 
he  viewed  it,  and  had  viewed  for  twenty  years,  should  have  the 
daring  to  seek  the  hand  of  his  daughter,  maddened  and  enraged 
him. 

"There's  a  gentleman  in  the  library,"  said  Judy  to  the 
Colonel,  as  he  raised  his  head  from  the  hands  into  which  it  had 
sunk. 

"  Who  is  it,  Judy  ?"  said  the  Colonel,  alarmed,  for  he  felt 
that  every  finger  in  the  universe  was  pointing  at  him. 

''  Miss  Cory  knows  him,  I  guess,''  said  Judy. 

"  Go  to  her,  Judy,  and  help  her.  I  will  see  the  gentleman." 
The  Colonel  wiped  his  red  eyes,  rubbed  his  glasses,  and  after 
tucking  in  his  bosom  frills,  with  as  stately  a  step  as  if  he 
owned  the  manor  bearing  his  name,  he  proceeded  towards  his 
library. 

The  next  moment  Colonel  Livingston  and  Rufus  Wilton 
stood  face  to  face.  The  meeting  was  chilling  and  overpower- 
ing to  both.  The  Colonel  had  not  met  the  latter  since  he 
parted  with  him  in  his  sick  room,  and  now  an  instinctive  feel- 
ing of  obligation  came  painfully  over  him  ;  then  the  audacity 
of  the  young  man,  and  his  probable  errand,  rushed  upon  his 
mind,  and  for  a  moment  kindled  it  with  fierce  resentment. 


Isoka's    Child.*  293 

With  a  self-possessed,  but  modest  address,  Wilton  accosted 
the  Colonel,  and  by  his  fascinating  manner  disarmed  him  of  tlie 
auger  which  he  had  felt  on  his  first  recognition  of  one  so  dis- 
agreeable in  imagination. 

Against  every  established  feeling,  he  listened ;  for  something 
in  the  face  and  voice  of  the  speaker  held  him  motionless, 
though,  with  each  word  from  his  lips,  he  grew  more  violent  in 
opposition  to  his  declared  errand.  The  earnestness  and  emo- 
tion evinced  in  the  speech  of  the  young  man,  gave  him  no  doubt 
of  his  sincerity  ;  and  when,  with  fervor  of  language  and  honest 
candor,  he  spoke  of  his  attachment  to  his  daughter,  and  his 
wish  for  a  favorable  reception  of  his  suit  from  her  father,  the 
Colonel  manifested  no  opposition.  He  was  seemingly  dumb 
and  abstracted. 

The  manner  of  the  Colonel  gave  Wilton  less  courage  to  pro 
ceed  than  if  he  had  even  betrayed  violence  of  feeling  ;  but  had 
the  latter  known  that  he  whom  he  addressed  was  rapt  in  a 
vision  of  the  past,  that  on  his  hair,  brow,  and  eyes,  the  Colo- 
nel's intent  gaze  w^as  fixed,  regardless  of  the  import  of  his 
words,  still  greater  would  have  been  his  despair. 

For  a  while  the  young  man  awaited  courteously  his  reply, 
but  as  the  Colonel's  head  bent  over  the  cane  he  held,  in  silence, 
he  again  spoke. 

"  Colonel  Livingston,"  said  he,  "I  have  declared  my  wishes, 
and  trust  that  you  have  listened  favorably — without  disappro- 
bation." 

The  Colonel  roused  himself,  and  while  his  eyes  were  fixed 
with  a  magnetic  charm  upon  the  speaker,  he  replied,  as  he 
believed  that  he  could  never  have  done  to  a  ^Viltou  : 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "I  regret  your  errand  ;  my  daughter  is  as 
far  separated  from  you  as  God  could  divide  two  earthly  beings. 
Your  attachment  for  each  other  is  but  lunacy  on  either  side.  I 
cannot  hear  the  subject  alluded  to.  Ko,  young  man,  there 
must  now  be  an  end  of  it.  I  discard  you  peremptorily,'  as  her 
suitor.  We  are  opposed  as  a  family.  I  have  no  personal 
enmity — to — to  you,  sir  ;  you  have  been  of  use  to  me.  I  would 
aid  you,  could  1.  consistently,  in  any — distant  way,  but  may 
Heaven  avert  any  connection  between  our  families." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Wilton,  composedly,  *'  I  do  not  wish  to 
unite  the  heads  of  our  families  ;  your  daughter  and  myself  are 
of  another  generation,  and  furthermore,  sir,  I  would  suggest  to 
you,  that  her  happiness  for  life  is  somewhat  concerned  in  this 


294  Isoka's    Child. 

matter  ;  I  do  not  speak  of  my  own,  that  is  of  no  importance  to 
you." 

"  I  can  take  care  of  her  happiness,"  said  the  Colonel  stiffly. 

"  I  believe,  sir,"  replied  Wilton,  in  a  tone  musical  and  low, 
"  that  /  can  do  it  better." 

"The  Colonel's  glance  fell,  he  for  the  first  time  despised  him- 
self for  his  forbearance  ;  but  soon  overcoming  the  spell  that 
bound  him,  he  averted  his  eyes,  and  said  sternly, 

"  I  can  have  no  conversation  with  you  upon  this  subject — I 
forbid  your  intercourse  with  her,  wholly,  and  for  ever." 

"  I  am  prepared  for  all  this,"  said  Wilton,  calmly,  "  but  par- 
don me  if  I  persevere  ;  my  position  with  you,  sir,  is  not  agree- 
able, but  on  that  account,  I  will  not  desert  htr^  for  I  consider 
Cora  mint  by  the  gift  of  a  Higher  Power  ;  she  has  given  me 
her  young  heart,  and  by  God's  will,  I  will  keep  it." 

"  Young  man,  ycu  have  certainly  assurance.    I  have  prided 

^myself  that  no  one  was  ever   treated  inhospitably  within  my 

doors,  but  I  never  expected  to  see  a  Wilton  cross  its  threshold." 

"But  a  Wilton  has  done  so,  sir,  and  I  trust  without  harm, 
and  whatever  you  may  think.  Colonel  Livingston,  I  say  it  with 
respect,  sir,  I  consider  your  doors  not  dishonored  by  the 
entrancd  of  a  Wilton.  When  I  offer  your  daughter  my  hand,  I 
do  it  not  cringingly,  and  trust,  aside  from  my  preference  for 
her,  that  there  is  nothing  dishonorable  in  thus  restoring  to  her, 
at  some  future  day,  the  estate  of  her  grandfather." 

The  allusion  to  the  contested  property  aroused  all  the  slum- 
bering bitterness  of  the  Colonel. 

"  And  what  ?"  said  he,  with  a  sneer,  "  in  case  the  law 
restores  it  to  her  father,  will  it  be  your  wish  to  regain  it  to 
stciirt  it  to  you,  and  to  your  heirs  ?  Ah,  blind  fool  that  I  was, 
here  speaks  the  artful  tongue  of  Roger  Wilton." 

Resentment  now  kindled  in  the  eye  and  cheek  of  the  young 
suitor  ;■  with  a  form  erect,  and  a  face  beaming  with  honest 
pride  of  character,  he  looked  in  the  face  of  the  taunting  Colo- 
nel, and  said, — 

"I  expect  no  such  result  ;  your  suit  will  prove  fruitless,  in 
my  opinion  ;  I  can  hardly  blame  you  for  your  bitterness  of  feel- 
ing, but  on  the  dmd^  not  on  the  living  should  the  blame  of  dis- 
inheritance be  cast.  It  was  certainly  a  strange  disposition  of  a 
son's  inheritance,  but  I  see  not  how  that  culpability  can  rest 
upon  him  upon  whom  it  was  bestowed." 

"  You  do  not  see  it,"  replied  the  Colonel,  scornfully.    "  And 


I  S  O  K  A    8     U  H  I  L  D  .  295 

cf  you  do  some  day  see  that  upon  him  a  darker  door  will  close, 
than  poverty  alone  could  lead  him  to, — would  you  then  seek 
the  hand  of  the  daughter  of  Edward  Livingston  ? — link  your 
disgraced  name  with  that  of  one  never  sullied  with  dishonor?" 

With  a  pale  face,  and  indignant  quivering  lip,  Rufus  Wilton 
stood  before  the  enraged  Colonel  ;  then  striking  his  fisu  with 
force  upon  the  table,  he  exclaimed  with  a  voice  trembling  with 
insulted  pride  : 

"  Another  man  could  not  have  so  spoken,  and  stood  before 
me.  I  hold  myself  no  dastard,  nor  of  a  race  despised  or  nig- 
gardly, and  if  you  insult  me  with  such  language,  you'll  find  that 
there  is  spirit  in  the  veins  of  a  Virginian  Neville,  if  you  falsely 
deem  that  you  can  trample  on  a  son  of  Roger  Wilton." 

''  What  do  you  know  of  your  Neville  blood  ?"  questioned 
the  Colonel,  turning  pale. 

"  What  do  you  know,  sir  ?  I  ask,''  said  Wilton,  watching  the 
stern  face  of  the  Colonel. 

"  I  know  nothing  good — nothing  good  of  it,  young  man." 

"  Tell  me,  did  you  know  my  mother  ?"  said  Wilton,  facing 
the  exasperated  Colonel. 

At  this  moment,  Cora  entered  the  room,  and  pale  as  the 
petals  of  the  lily,  glided  towards  her  father  and  lover.  She 
saw  at  a  glance  then*  agitation ;  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears, 
she  laid  one  hand  on  each,  and  said,  "  Let  me  not  occasion 
anger  between  you  ;  Rufus,  regard  charitably  the  prejudices 
of  a  lifetime  ;  and,  papa,  don't  wound  his  feelings — do  him 
justice,  I  implore  you." 

*'  The  law  will  soon  do  it  better  ;  go,  young  man,  and  know 
that  1  spurn  your  suit — that  I  cast  in  your  teeth  your  insinu- 
ations. Did  I  know  your  mother  ?  Ask  the  God  of  Heaven 
where  she  is,  for  he  alone  knows.  A  Neville  !  so  there  is  honor 
in  a  Neville  .'" 

Colonel  Livingston's  face  was  now  purple  with  rage  and 
excited  feeling.  Cora's  tears  and  suffering  had  calmed  her 
lover.  Regardless  of  her  father,  he  clasped  her  to  his  heart  ; 
then,  kissing  her  brow,  released  her,  while  a  parting  blessing 
came  suffocatingly  from  his  lips. 

After  the  departure  of  Wilton,  Cora  said  to  her  father  : 

"  I  am  almost  ready,  papa.  We  have  done  much  to-day, 
and  to-morrow  can  leave  for  New  England.  That  sweet  vil- 
lage through  which  we  passed  last  summer,  will  be  a  nice  place 
for  us." 


296  Isora's    Child. 

"  Yes,  Cora,  change  of  air  will  benefit  us.  It  will  look  quite 
well  to  travel  in  the  summer ;  there  is  nothing  humiliating  in 
this — natural  at  my  age  to  prefer  retirement.  Then,  after  the 
trial,  we  can  come  back — with  triumph — then,  where  will  be 
the  lordly  Wiltons  V 

Cora  was  regardless  of  this  oft-repeated  tale  of  expected 
wealth,  and,  overcome  with  fatigue,  and  agitated  by  the  brief 
interview  with  Wilton,  she  was  scarcely  able  to  contend  with 
the  responsibilities  resting  upon  her.  But  she  attempted  to 
soothe  and  cheer  her  father,  and  went  again  to  her  chamber, 
where  she  resigned,  as  she  believed,  with  submission,  her  dear 
little  room,  with  all  its  fond  associations,  and  looked  forth  with 
a  sad  adieu  to  the  old  trees  and  sunny  lawn,  where,  in  childish 
glee,  she  had,  for  so  many  years,  winged  merrily  with  bird  and 
butterfly. 

The  morning  of  departure  came.  The  following  day  the 
premises  were  to  be  sold,  and  Cora  thought  that  the  sooner  her 
father  left  them,  the  less  sorrow  he  would  feel.  So,  after  num- 
berless directions  to  Sophy,  and  old  faithful  Jamie,  the  last  key 
was  turned  to  the  travelling  trunks,  and  the  last  fold  adjusted 
in  the  simple  dress  that  adorned  the  fair  young  wanderer,  as  she 
was  about  to  go  forth  on  the  arm  of  her  less  resolute  parent, 
for  an  untried  destiny. 

Cora  thought  sometimes  that  her  father  did  not  realize  his 
real  situation,  so  rapt  was  he  in  his  dream  of  ideal  pros- 
perity. 

But  Cora  fully  did,  as  she  counted  over  her  bills,  and  calcu- 
lated how  far  they  would  apply  towards  their  support,  until 
they  could  earn  soniething  for  the  future.  .  She  had  set  out  on 
her  journey,  and  dared  not  look  back.  Yet,  that  setting-forth 
was  sad  and  slow. 

But  while  Cora  had  made  her  preparations,  Mr.  Clarendon 
had  returned  to  New  York  in  a  state  of  harassing  excitement. 
He  had  gone  further  than  he  had  intended.  He  had  done  and 
said  what  he  would  have  given  worlds  to  recall  ;  but,  he 
argued,  that  no  man  could  have  patiently  borne  from  the 
woman  that  owed  him  so  much,  such  coldness,  and  haughty 
hidifference.  His  spirit  would  not  now  allow  him  to  retract 
his  words,  and  Cora  and  her  father  were  suffered  to  abandon 
Yillacora,  and  surrender  their  furniture  into  the  hands  of  the 
officers  of  the  law.  So,  the  same  day  that  found  the  patient, 
resolute  girl  and  her  depressed  parent  in  huuible  quarters,  in  a 


Child.  297 

small  New  England  village,  the  premises  of  the  Colonel,  and 
all  therein  contained,  passed  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Clarendon, 
who  had  become  the  purchaser  at  the  sale. 

Through  a  friend,  Cora  had  disposed  of  much  valuable  jew- 
elry and  other  articles,  which  had  really  supplied  her  purse 
better  than  she  had  expected.  So,  after  her  arrival,  she 
arranged  her  small  apartment,  in  the  corner  of  a  quiet  cottage 
where  they  boarded,  and  more  cheerfully  than  mioht  be  su}> 
posed,  considering  the  contrast  it  aiforded  to  her  own  little  room 
at  home,  which  the  old  elms  shaded,  and  where  the  birds  still 
lingered,  though  she  who  loved  them  so  well  had  fled.  But 
there  was  now  a  pretty  lilac  bush  under  her  window,  and 
though  there  was  nothing  in  the  yard  but  some  chickens  and 
two  Guinea  hens,  Cora  looked  at  them  with  wet  eyes,  and  was 
pleased  with  their  pretty  speckled  feathers.  But  the  old 
white-washed  walls  looked  cracked  and  poor  ;  and  the  window- 
panes  small,  and  full  of  scratched  names  ;  and  the  green  paper 
curtains  made  a  rattling  that  set  her  father  nervous.  Then  the 
yellow  painted  floor,  with  its  strip  of  carpeting  around  the  bed, 
looked  cold  and  desolate  ;  and  when  Cora  saw  her  pretty  face 
twisted  awry  in  the  little  tipped-up  glass,  that  sent  her  head  a 
good  deal  higher  than  she  felt  disposed  to  hold  it,  she  saw  how 
out  of  place  she  was,  and  if  she  didn't  cry  outright,  it  was 
because  her  father  had  sat  down  in  the  painted  rocking- 
chair,  off  of  which  one  arm  tumbled,  and  was  looking  at  her 
with  an  expression  that  seemed  to  say — "  Is  this  better  than 
to  have  married  Mr.  Clarendon  V 

But  their  reveries,  such  as  they  were,  were  disturbed  by 
the  slapping  sound  of  feet,  on  the  painted  floor,  when,  without 
rapping,  a  girl  came  in,  and  said, 

"  I  guess  you  didn't  know  tea  is  ready.  The  men's  done, 
they  come  when  the  horn  blows,  but  we  women  folks  eats 
afterwards." 

The  Colonel  stood  upright,  stiff  as  if  he  had  been  frozen,  but 
Cora  bowed  pleasantly,  and  motioned  to  her  father  to  go  down 
to  tea  at  their  first  private  lodgings.  The  table  they  found 
neatly  spread,  and  the  bread  and  butter  quite  inviting. 
Neither  could  any  fault  be  found  with  the  honey,  the  cheese^ 
or  the  baked  custard,  sprinkled  with  nutmeg,  set  around  iu 
blue  cups  by  each  plate,  with  a  spoon  in  the  middle. 

Still,  neither  Cora  nor  her  father  could  relish  the  entertain- 
ment, and  the  former  was  much    relieved  when    good  Mrs. 

13* 


298  Isora's    Child. 

Sraitli  ceased  to  urge  them  to  taste  the  different  varieties,  and 
the  girl  in  puffs  and  horn  side-combs  withdrew  her  staring 
eyes,  to  regale  them  on  her  own  well-filled  plate. 

The  first  night  at  the  Widow  Smith's  was  dreadful  to  thft 
father  and  daughter,  but  as  soon  as  tea  was  over,  they  went 
to  look  about  the  village,  and  every  one  of  whom  they  inquired 
respecting  it,  told  them  how  lucky  they  were  to  get  such  a 
nice  place  to  board  as  at  Deacon  Smith's  widow's. 

But  in  the  country  Cora  could  always  find  something  beau- 
tiful to  look  at.  There  was  a  pretty  water-fall  right  in  tlie 
heart  of  the  town,  that  foamed  and  sparkled  in  the  departing 
sunlight,  and  venerable  willows  drooped  their  branches,  under 
which  rosy-cheeked  children  romped  and  sang  merrily  ;  and 
the  sun  went  down  behind  valleys  as  green,  and  hills  as 
thickly  wooded,  as  the  shores  of  the  blue  Connecticut  could 
boast  of. 

Pensively,  on  the  arm  of  her  father,  Cera  wandered  till  dark, 
thinking  amidst  all  these  new  scenes  still — more  fondly  than 
ever — of  .him  she  loved,  who  was  now  so  far  away.  But  the 
Colonel  had  but  one  idea,  and  that  was  the  approaching  trial. 
This  anticipation  threw  a  bewildering  veil  over  present  horrors, 
for  he  little  realized  that  he  was  actually  poor  and  homeless, 
but  rather  imagined  that,  as  he  was  travelling,  he  must,  of 
course,  submit  to  inconveniences,  and  as  a  gentleman,  should 
look  heroically  upon  temporary  evils.  So  upon  retiring  for 
the  night,  with  the  aid  of  a  high  stool,  he  climbed  up  into  the 
feathered  slanting  pile,  that  was  built  upon  an  inclined  plane 
for  a  bed,  and  after  propping  his  feet  securely  against  the  foot- 
board, went  to  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  he  ate  from  gold-plate  in 
Linlithgow  Castle,  and  that  his  daughter  Cora  wore  the  guise 
and  ruif  of  the  beautiful  Scottish  Queen. 

But  Cora  slept  less  quietly.  She  saw  things  as  they  really 
were,  and  she  trembled  for  her  father  when  his  dream  of  anti- 
cipated success  should  no  longer  buoy  up  his  spirits,  and  the 
suit  should  be  terminated,  for  she  feared  the  worst,  and  indeed 
for  her  own  sake  she  did  not  care  to  impoverish  Wilton  to 
enrich  herself.  She  hardly  knew  what  result  she  did  wish — 
she  only  felt  that  her  heart  was  heavy  and  sad. 

But  Cora  became  more  reconciled  to  the  Widow  Smith's, 
for  habit  had  accustomed  her  to  many  things,  and  she  found 
that  she  was  surrounded  by  people  of  kind  hearts,  and  though 
the  girl  with  horn   side-combs  and  yellow  hnir  would  burst  iu 


1  s  o  R  a'  s    Child.  299 

to  lier  room  without  knocking,  and  the  good  widow  tease  her 
to  eat  hot  "ship-jacks"  till  she  feared  dyspepsia  and  night- 
mare, still  she  had  the  common  comforts  of  life,  and  felt  that 
God  had  thus  afflicted  her  for  some  wise  purpose. 

She  had  been  about  the  village  one  morning,  to  engage  some 
music  scholars,  and  came  home  pleased  with  her  success,  when 
her  father  announced  his  intention  of  leaving  for  New  York 
the  following  week,  to  be  present  at  the  trial  of  his  cause. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  satisfied  with  the  exercise  of  his  revenge 
upon  Cora,  and  devoted  himself  with  his  usual  zeal  to  prepa- 
ration for  the  trial.  The  time  appointed  had  at  length  arrived. 
He  had  been  untiring  in  his  efforts  to  procure  the  essential 
testimony,  requisite  to  prove  the  existence  of  a  later  will,  than 
that  by  which  Wilton  derived  his  possessions.  But  in  this  he 
failed,  much  to  the  disappointment  of  the  Colonel.  His  main 
reliance  was  therefore  now  upon  some  old  family  servants,  who 
swore  to  its  existence.  After  the  wtnesses  had  been  examined, 
and  the  evidence  on  both  sides  introduced,  the  case  was 
submitted  to  the  jury  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Wilton's  counsel, 
who  represented  his  client's  possession  of  the  Livingston  estate 
lawful  and  honorable  as  ingenuity  and  eloquence  could  make  it 
appear.  Mr.  Wilton's  character  was  challenged  to  be  proved 
in  any  respect  impeachable  for  the  space  of  five-and-twenty 
years.  Not  a  finger,  said  his  counsel,  can  be  laid  upon  a 
transaction  of  his,  sullied  with  even  the  color  of  suspicion. 
That  he  was  called  unsocial,  of  a  morose  temperament,  and 
that  he  preferred  a  secluded  life,  he  acknowledged  ;  but  that 
he  was  a  man  of  perpetual  gloom  or  a  misanthrope,  he  denied  ; 
but  even  admitting  the  truth  of  the  accusation,  it  did  not 
follow  that  he  was  dishonest.  Every  man,  he  argued,  had  a 
right  to  choose  his  habits,  and  with  Shakspeare  for  authority, 
he  could  proclaim 


'  Opinion  but  a  fool,  that  makes  us  scaa 
The  outward  habit  by  the  inward  man." 


and  he  saw  no  reason  why  the  reverse  might  not  be  true. 

He  represented  it  natural  and  grateful  in  the  patron  of  a 
devoted  ward,  to  make  him  his  heir,  instead  of  a  neglectful 
child,  who  deserted  his  parent,  as  had  been  represented,  in 
feeble  health,  in  the  decline  of  life,  and,  by  a  career  of  profli- 


300  Isoka's    Child. 

gacy  thus  forfeiting  his  respect — or,  for  his  own  imputed 
motive,  to  hunt  up  his  Scottish  pedigree,  and  the  ashes  of 
family  grandeur,  which  could  be  fouud  nearer  by,  in  cots 
as  well  as  castles.  A  dutiful  son,  he  said,  would  have  sooner 
remained  within  the  pale  of  the  paternal  fold,  and  in  the 
arras  of  dying  love,  have  secured  the  substance  instead  of 
pursuing  the  shadow  of  ephemeral  greatness.  It  was  hard, 
he  acknowledged,  that  a  gentleman  of  Mr.  Livingston's  ex- 
pectations and  family  pride  should  not  have  the  means  to 
castle  his  possessions,  his  family  portraits,  his  heir-looms,  and 
armorial  crests  ;  but  still  he  should  be  congratulated,  for 
while  he  lost  the  ''  local  habitation,"  he  kept  "  the  name."  He 
stated  that  it  had  been  urged  that  none  before  had  ever  laid 
claim  to  a  foot  of  this  contested  soil,  but  a  Livingston — that 
even  the  ashes  of  his  forefathers  consecrated  it  to  the  plaintiff, 
while  no  one  had  ever  owned  an  acre  of  it,  since  old  Sir 
Kobert,  or  Peter,  or  Grimes  first  settled  it  with  their  noble 
lineage.     He  would  ask  with  the  poet, 

"  What  should  be  in  that  Cesar? 
Why  should  tliat  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name. 
Sound  them,  it  dolh  become  the  mouth  as  well. 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy  ;  conjure  with  them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Cesar." 

"  It  is  not  only  the  moonshine  of  a  name  that  dignines  the 
claim  of  the  plaintiff;  hi  counsel  has  an  interest  in  it  not  to  be 
despised.  He  is  neither  without  his  Claude  Lorraine  visions, 
nor  can  be  blamed  for  seeing  enhanced  charms  in  a  diamond, 
richly  set.  With  all  his  reputed  love  for  beauty,  the  attrac- 
tions of  an  heiress  are  not  to  be  despised,  by  a  gentleman  of 
his  luxurious  tastes.  Still,  if  reports  w^ere  true,  he  had  before 
sought  false  mirage,  and  before  now  ignis  fat uus  light. 

"  But,"  continued  the  counsel,  "  I  have  no  time  nor  inclina- 
tion to  follow  his  wanderings,  a,s  they  might  be  bewildering  for 
a  man  of  steady  habits  ;  yet,  I  cannot  allow  a  client  to  be 
defrauded,  for  the  sake  of  gildisig  his  pathway,  though  it  is 
true,"  he  added,  "that  the  counsel  is  to  be  pitied,  for  he 
is  often  so  situated  that,  as  an  old  French  proverb  goes, 
'  //  Tie  salt  sur  quel  pied  danserj  " 

Notwithstanding  the  gentleman  was  rebuked  by  the  court, 
he  seemed  inclined  to  have  a  shot  upon  the  counsel,  before  he 


Isora's    Guild.  301 

commented  upon  the  facts  which  bore  upon  the  case  of  his 
client ;  but  having  ceased  his  fire,  he  summed  up  the  evidence, 
which  consisted  chiefly  of  a  will,  properly  executed  in  favor 
of  Roger  Wircou. 

Mr.  Clarendon  then  rose  and  addressed  the  jury,  and  so  plau- 
sibly showed  the  course  of  duplicity  pursued  by  the  defendant, 
during  the  illness  of  his  patron,  that  he  excited  the  indignation 
and  contempt  of  all  who  listened.  That  Edward  Livingston 
was  unjustly  deprived  of  his  inheritance,  through  the  cunning 
and  treachery  of  Wilton,  was  suspected  by  many  of  the  spec- 
tators. The  father's  prostrate  condition  was  set  forth  by  Mr. 
Clarendon,  while,  like  a  Judas,  Wilton  sat  by  his  bed-side, 
administering  drops  of  poison  to  the  soul  of  the  dying  man, 
faster  than  those  of  restoration  to  aid  his  bodily  recovery, 
while,  with  obsequious  devotion,  he  tilled  the  place  of  the 
ungrateful  absent  son, 

"  Sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth,"  he  represented  the  tale  to 
have  rankled  in  the  parent's  heart,  while  insidiously  the  traitor 
crept  into  his  affections,  and  worked  out,  inch  by  inch,  his  own 
pecuniary  salvation. 

On  the  borders  of  the  grave,  he  represented  that  the  old 
dying  man  was  cajoled  and  duped  into  giving  his  estate  to  one 
who  bore  not  in  his  veins  one  drop  of  his  blood,  while  he  disin- 
herited his  only  child.  This  testimony,  he  said,  was  given  by 
one  who  heard  the  incoherent  utterances  of  the  palsied  sufferer. 
*'  This  might,"  Mr,  Clarendon  argued,  "  be  called,  as  it  had 
been,  but  the  ravings  of  insanity  ;  but  he  would  appeal  to 
every  candid  mind,  if  the  disinheritance  of  an  only  son,  did  not 
look  more  like  the  act  of  a  lunatic."  He  pictured  the  scene, 
when  the  first  will  was  drawn  and  executed,  and  the  trembling 
condition  of  the  sufferer,  whose  fingers  were  held  by  him  who 
gloated  over  the  unexpected  inheritance,  while  the  signature 
was  penned  that  gave  the  ward,  instead  of  the  son,  title  to  the 
old  man's  possessions.  Then  the  apathy  into  which  he 
sunk  after  exclaimiue,  "  Gt)d  forgive  me,  if  I  wrong  thee, 
Edwnrd  I" 

W^ith  pathos  and  power,  Mr.  Clarendon  represented  the 
canse  of  Edward  Livin<rstOQ,  and  so  glowingly  exhibited  the 
triumph  of  the  successful  intriguer,  at  the  time  of  his  patron's 
death,  that  every  eye  seemed  to  see  it  written  on  the  face,  now 
too  deeply  furrowed  for  the  years  of  the  man. 

Then  followed,  in  imagination,  while  Mr.  Clarendon  spokc^ 


302  Isoka's    Child. 

the  son's  return,  ere  the  vital  spark  had  fled,  until  the  joy,  the 
remorse,  the  anguish  of  the  old  man  seemed  pictured  on  every 
brain,  preparing  them  for  the  restoration  of  the  son's  inheri-' 
tance. 

"  It  often  falls,"  Mr.  Clarendon  quoted,  "  that  Right  long 
time,  is  overborne  of  Wrong  ;"  but  he  believed  now,  that  the 
scale  was  turning,  and  that  *'  some  hidden  thunder  in  the 
stores  of  Heaven  "  was  yet  reserved  for  treachery  so  base.  On 
every  point  which  bore  upon  the  case,  Mr.  Clarendon  enchained 
attention  for  a  lengthy  period.  Curious,  eager  eyes  sought  for 
the  countenance  of  Roger  AVilton.  Not  an  emotion  of  his 
mind  was  readable,  unless  the  sarcastic  curl  of  his  lip  betokened 
his  contempt  and  defiance  of  the  plausibility  of  the  speaker. 
The  effect  of  Mr.  Clarendon's  argument,  was  to  excite  sus- 
picion of  foul  wrong  on  the  part  of  Wilton  ;  but  having  been 
for  years  in  the  possession  of  his  estate,  while  no  stain  rested 
upon  his  character,  no  lip  betrayed  the  workings  of  the  mind. 
All  that  could  bear  favorably  upon  Colonel  Livingston's  claim 
had  been  presented,  and  such  evidence  had  been  adduced  in 
support  of  it,  as  intercepted  letters,  now  revealed,  could  show, 
of  the  confidence  and  love  between  the  father  and  son  at  the 
time  of  their  separation.  And  when  Mr.  Clarendon  closed,  the 
feelings  of  the  audience,  at  least,  had  been  enlisted  on  the  side 
of  the  disinherited. 

Colonel  Livingston  soon  afterwards  learned  the  decision  of 
his  case,  which  confirmed  the  claim  of  him  who  had  held  the 
contested  estate  since  the  death  of  his  father. 

He  returned  to  Cora  bowed  down  with  sorrow,  and  crushed 
by  disappointments,  when  she  more  than  ever  realized  that  her 
mistaken  parent  had  sacrificed  his  energies,  and  waited  his 
talents,  for  a  delusive  dream.  In  her  little  whitewashed  cham- 
ber, in  the  barely  furnished  apartments,  where  nothing  external 
gratified  the  eye — where  no  delicious  sound  of  music  ever  spell- 
bound the  ear — where  no  sense  was  soothed  by  those  exquisite 
gratifications  that  wealth  furnished  the  affluent, — here  she  im- 
plored her  dear  father  to  look  within,  and  examine  his  own 
heart,  and  see  what  grace  it  lacked  to  fortify  himself  for  the 
heavy  trials  of  his  lot.  She  begged  him,  now  that  the  great 
hallucination  of  his  life  had  vanished,  in  stirring  action  to  for- 
get the  past,  and  while  he  earned  for  himself  an  earthly  main- 
tenance, to  press  on  for  a  higher  inheritance  than  the  world 
or  its  treasures  could  yield.     By  her  gentle  persuasion,  and 


Isoka's    Child.  303 

unpretending  example,  she  led  him  oftener  than  he  had  ever 
been,  to  tlie  villag-e  sanctnary,  where  he  joined  in  heartfelt 
worship,  and  for  the  time,  knelt  at  the  throne  of  his  Maker, 
with  an  humble,  contrite  spirit,  while  Cora  hoped  that  he  had 
been  led  by  Divine  grace  to  the  only  and  great  source  of  con- 
solation, and  could  say  in  his  season  of  temporal  affliction, 
"Thy  will  be  done." 

In  pleasant  weather,  the  father  and  daughter  took  long 
walks  together,  over  the  village  of  Goosegreen,  and  thus 
wdiiled  away  hours,  that  had  been  otherwise  sad  and  solitary, 
for,  as  yet,  they  had  neither  of  them  procured  any  occupation  ; 
.but  rainy  and  gloomy  days  came,  when  they  were  confined  to 
their  cheerless  rooms,  where  the  sound  of  the  rain  on  the  low 
roof,  the  crowing  and  cackling  of  the  poultry  in  the  yards,  and 
the  continual  dropping  from  the  tongues  below  (the  widow  and 
the  yellow  haired  "  help,"  being  on  the  committee  of  ways  and 
means)  furnished  the  only  changes  that  f  ung  on  their  ears,  dur- 
ing many  dull  periods  of  their  new  existence. 

But  Cora  was  one  that  trifles  amused  when  in  her  usual 
spirits  ;  and  now  she  omitted  no  opportunity  to  make  her 
father  laugh,  if  it  was  at  nothing  more  ludicrous  than  at  the 
saucy  urchins  wdio  flattened  their  noses  on  the  windo>v  panes 
of  their  low  bed-rooms  ;  and  books  that  they  had  never  before 
thought  of  reading,  they  caught  up  now  with  avidity,  in  the 
cottage  at  Goosegreen.  The  Colonel's  greatest  horror  was  of 
the  intrusion  of  country  people,  for,  as  he  had  lived  in  his  ele- 
gant retirement,  he  never  thought  that  he  could  come  under  the 
same  order  of  rustics,  and  shunned,  with  disgust,  any  contact 
with  the  "  vulgar  herd."  And  the  villagers  hated  him  and  his 
proud  airs,  w'orse  than  he  did  them  ;  but  they  loved  the  very 
sight  of  Cora,  and  there  was  not  a  child  in  the  village  that 
had  once  seen  her,  but  delighted  to  bring  her  flowers,  and  the 
largest  strawberries  they  could  pick.  The  older  ones  gave  the 
whole  flag-stones  to  the  Colonel,  as  the}"  passed  him,  and  the 
boys  strutted  behind  his  back,  sometimes  with  their  hands 
behind  them,  and  then  with  a  cane  which  they  swung  at  mea- 
sured distances,  but  if  they  saw  Cora  looking,  the  strut 
changed  to  a  less  dignified  gait,  and  with  faces  as  red  as  their 
garden  poppies,  they  would  sneak  slily  away.  While  her 
father  was  occupied  with  a  new  periodical,  Cora  strolled 
out  one  afternoon  to  buy  a  ribbon  for  a  hat,  and  thought  she 
would  look  about  the  village  for  a  milliner.     So  after  going 


304:  Isoka's    Child. 

through  several  grassy  streets,  all  still  as  Sunday,  and  seeing 
no  one  but  some  girls  through  a  fence,  and  some  clerks  with 
pens  behind  their  ears,  that  had  come  out  of  their  littlt-of- 
everything  stores,  to  look  at  the  beautiful  young  lady,  ttiat 
everybody  stared  at,  with  her  white  face  and  sunny  curls,  she 
finally  found  a  small  shop,  with  a  window  full  of  flaunting  caps, 
bonnets  of  every  shape,  ribbons  of  any  shade  the  glaring  sun 
and  flies  chose  to  make  them,  and  as  she  read  in  big  letters, 
"■  Millinary — walk  up,"  at  the  end,  she  mounted  the  big  stone 
at  the  door,  and  went  up  stairs. 

Behind  a  small  show-case  of  varieties,  from  crimped  rufls 
down  to  garters  and  hair-pins,  stood  a  girl  that  tended  the 
shop  meal-times,  and  society  and  prayer  meetin'  days,  but  on 
other  occasions,  the  lady  who  owned  the  sign  filled  the  station  ; 
but  the  girl  not  being  able  to  find  the  color  that  Cora  wanted 
in  a  ribbon,  she  went  for  a  box  in  the  next  room. 

But  instead  of  the  girl  and  the  ribbon,  out  came  from 
thence  a  portly  figure  in  rustling  silk,  surmounted  by  a  ball  of 
something  made  up  of  lace  ribbons,  spiral  curls,  and  wax- 
headed  pins,  on  the  sides  of  which  were  suspended  some  huge 
ear-rings,  that  met  the  fat  shoulders  beneath.  That  it  was  a 
head,  was  at  length  apparent,  and  moreover  contained,  tc 
Cora's  dismay,  the  self-satisfied  face  of  their  old  housekeeper, 
Mrs.  Jonson. 

Cora  might  have  escaped,  for  the  milliner  was  at  first  occu- 
pied with  examining  Cora's  new-fashioned  mantle,  but  she 
preferred  to  face  the  dread  evil,  with  all  the  courage  the  occa- 
sion demanded. 

A  mutual  recognition  took  place,  and  Mrs.  Jonson  being  so 
overjoyed  to  find  that  Deacon  Smith's  widow's  new  boarders 
were  people  that  she  knew,  that  Cora  was  forced  to  be  civil, 
and  before  she  could  make  her  egress,  was  carried  forcibly  into 
the  back  shop,  to  have  a  private  talk  about  matters  and 
things  since  she  quit  superintending  country  seats  for  milli- 
nery. 

"  Well  now,"  said  Mrs.  Jonson,  seating  herself  opposite 
Cora,  "if  this  don't  look  like  old  times  ;  now  do  tell  what  sent 
you  and  Captain  Livestone  to  Goosegreen  ?  Why,  Lord, 
iiow  does  he  stand  up  in  Widow  Smith's  cubbed  up  rooms  ? 
Only  to  think  of  it  !  its  like  Raby's  Nights,  only  the  Laddin 
ain't  got  no  lamp  to  rub,^o  bring  up  the  nigger,  he  !  he  ! 
What  changes  we  does  come  to  !     Some's   up-hill,  and  some 


Isora's    Child.  305 

down-hill,  and  then  verses  visy.  I  heerd  the  Captain  had  got 
reduced,  and  I  had  half  a  mind  to  give  him  a  lift,  but  you  know 
I  left  under  peculiar  circumferences,  and  he  and  I  were  never 
much  of  croneys.  Well,  Miss  Cora,  I  hope  you  are  comfort- 
able at  the  Widow's,  and  that  she  don't  pinch  in  your  living. 
She  means  well,  but  sometimes  her  sass  is  short,  he  !  he  !" 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Cora,  rising,  while  the  color  mounted 
on  her  cheek. 

"  Ah,  but,''  said  Mrs.  Jonson,  "  it  ain't  society  time  yet,  and 
the  girl  is  in  the  shop.  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  are  coming 
to  live  with  us,  in  earnest  ;  or  only  to  summer  it  ;  because 
tliat  makes  a  difference  with  Goosegreen  folks.  Now  the 
folks  will  call,  if  they  think  you  ain't  stuck  up  ;  but  I 
reckon  it  was  always  nateral  to  the  Livestones  to  be  stiff- 
necked  " 


"  But  I  really  must  go,  Mrs.  Jonson,  papa"- 


Let  your  pa  go  to  grass,  there's  more  on't,  I  guess,  than 
he  likes  in  Goosegreen,  if  he  don't  tread  too  high  for  it.  Now 
just  tell  me  about  your  city  relations — pretty  grand,  ain't 
they  ?  I  heerd  that  you  went  to  see  'em  last  winter.  Now, 
I'm  glad  to  see  that  you  ain't  a  hanging  on  to  'em.  If  you 
are  up  in  the  world,  why  eat  'em  out  of  house  and  home,  if 
you  want  to  ;  they'll  like  it  ;  but  if  you  are  reduced  like, 
keep  clear  of  rich  city  folks,  if  they  are  your  own  brothers 
and  sisters.  Now  I  never  had  any  that  was  so  pesky  grand 
myself,  but  I've  lived  where  I've  seen  country  folks  that 
warn't  so  well  to  do,  come  to  visit  their  country-seat  city 
wintering  relations,  and  it's  ten  to  one  they  hadn't  rather  they 
had  stayed  to  hum.  Not  that  they  hain't  got  any  souls  in 
their  fixed-up  bodies,  for  I  'spose  there  is  one  stuck  away 
somewhere,  but  it  takes  such  a  splash  of  their  buttermilk  for 
the  fashionable  Five  Avenue  folks,  and  foreigners,  and  hair-lipped 
natives,  that  little  is  left  after  the  skimmings  for  the  nice 
worthy  peoi)le  that  they  are  always  glad  to  see  when  they 
haven't  anybody  else.  And,  perhaps,  'tis  better  ;  for  Lord, 
these  retired  genteel  people  are  the  troublesomest,  after  all. 
Jest  as  likely  as  not,  they'll  wear  long  waists  instead  of  short, 
when  the  house  is  full  of  embassadors  and  consullers,  and  ten 
to  one  they  don't  appreciate  a  pleny  potentate,  if  they  set 
alongside  of  'em — and  if  they  don't  read  the  papers,  wdiy 
they  don't  know  if  all  the  lords  in  England  was  to  arrive. 
Lord,  I  'spose  it's  better  they  stayed  to  hum,  unless  they  liko 


306  Isora's    Child. 

to  see  people  help  'era  off  with  the  honestest  smiles  that 
they've  put  on,  always  telling  'em  that  they  must  come  again, 
no  time  in  pertekelar.  I'm  glad  to  see  that  you've  had  the 
sense  to  come  to  Goosegreen,  for  disagreeables  are  everywhere, 
and  when  you  don't  know  where  else  to  go,  come  to  my  shop. 
The  Ca])tain,  too,  tell  him  I  never  holds  grit,  and  if  he's 
down  and  I'm  up,  it's  all  the  same  in  Goosegreen — *  but  in  the 
city  the  devil  may  take  the  hindmost.'  " 

Cora  would  have  escaped,  if  she  could  have  possibly  done 
so,  but  Mrs.  Jonson's  back  was  against  the  door,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  listen,  and  how  long  she  might  have  been  impri- 
soned, it  was  impossible  to  say,  if  Mrs.  Jonson  had  not  caught 
sight,  out  of  the  window,  of  the  minister's  wife  on  her  way  to 
Mrs.  Peabody's,  with  a  small  reticule  on  her  arm.  Cora  was 
urged  to  stay  just  a  minute,  while  she  put  on  her  bonnet, 
when  she  would  go  along  with  her,  and  introduce  her  to  the 
Rev.  Mrs.  Pineapple ;  but  Cora  fled,  with  a  hasty  good  bye,  at 
the  first  apearance  of  a  door  crack. 

She  went  home,  resolving  not  to  tell  her  father  of  her  adven- 
ture, hoping  that  his  unapproachable  manners  would  keep  Mrs. 
Jonson  from  visiting  them.  He  had  missed  her  sadly,  and 
came  out  to  the  wicker-gate  to  meet  her,  when  he  led  her  to 
the  little  parlor  below,  and  told  her  that  he  had  resolved  to 
take  the  editorship  of  the  village  paper,  called  by  its  forme** 
proprietor,  "  The  Goosegreen  Rainbow."  Then  Cora  told  him 
how  successful  she  had  been  in  procuring  music  scholars,  and 
that  at  least,  she  had  little  doubt  of  their  making  themselves 
a  support,  if  it  was  an  humble  one.  Thus  Cora  and  her  father 
existed  in  their  }x>verty,  under  circumstances  peculiarly  trying 
to  them  both,  and  especially  aggravating  to  the  Colonel,  when 
he  reflected  on  the  alternative  offered  in  Cora's  marriage. 

But  the  change,  so  humbling  to  Colonel  Livingston,  had 
softened  the  pride  of  his  nature,  that  had  often  exhibited  itself 
in  haughty  arrogance  ;  and  Cora's  sweet  patience  and  cheer- 
fulness through  all  their  afflictions  had  doubly  endeared  her  to 
him.  At  times  when  he  saw  her  go  sadly  by  herself,  and  while 
she  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand — gazed  in  abstraction 
upon  some  crumbling  wild-wood  flower,  he  knew  where  her 
thoughts  were  wandering  ;  and  there  were  moments  when  he 
resolved  to  give  up  his  old  prejudices,  and  great  as  would  be 
the  sacrifice  to  his  pride,  and  painful  to  his  injured  feelings,  to 
consent  to  her  union  with  Rufus  Wilton.     But  she  continued 


Isora's    Child.  307 

silent  nnd  unmurmurins:,  and  he  conld  not  approach  a  subject 
so  painful  to  liim,  though  had  Cora  done  so,  she  might  have 
been  comforted. 

But  the  new  occupations  which  they  each  sou^'ht,  for  the 
present  engaged  tlieh*  time,  and  required  all  the  energy  they 
coukl  exercise  for  the  duties  devolving  upon  them.  Weeks 
tlius  flew  by — serenely,  if  without  joyousness,  or  even  happi- 
ness, when  one  morning  a  letter  came,  directed  to  the  Colonel, 
which  he  opened  with  some  agitation. 

It  ran  thus  : — 

"  Wilton  Park,  July,  18 — 
"Dear  Sir  : — Enclosed,  I  send  you  a  letter  intended  for  your  daughter. 
May  I  ask  the  favor  of  its  delivery  to  her  unopened,  trusting  that  the 
sentiments  which  I  declared  to  you,  will  aflbrd  an  apology  for  my 
presumption.  My  heart  is  still  devotedly  hers,  and  my  only  hope  of 
happiness  rests  upon  a  reunion  with  her.  God  grant  that  your  i^rejudices 
may  be  overcome,  and  that  with  your  consent,  I  may  seek  her  in  what 
ever  spot  she  may  be. 

"  Respectfully  yours, 

"Edward  Livixgstox,  Esq.  "Rufus  Wiltox." 

"  There  is  nothing  dishonorable  in  this,"  muttered  the  Colo- 
nel, "  nothing  clandestine.  A  strange  young  man — the  letter 
is  in  my  hands  fortunutely.  She  cannot  receive  it,  excepting 
through  me,"  so  the  Colonel  ruminated,  while  he  tucked  Cora's 
epistle  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  walked  up  the  grassiest  and 
longest  lane  in  Goosegreen.  He  did  not  as  usual  ask  Cora  to 
go  with  him.  As  he  saw  her  tie  her  blue  ribbons  under  her 
chin,  and  with  her  sad  eyes  look  upon  the  pale  image  of  her 
former  self  in  the  glass,  then  adjusting  her  hat  over  her  soft 
ringlets,  and  go  forth  to  give  a  morning  lesson  to  a  pupil,  he 
hurriedly  passed  her,  lest  she  should  see  the  letter  wliich  was 
hid  by  folds  of  broadcloth  in  his  pocket.  After  he  reached  the 
borders  of  a  wood,  he  there  seated  himself  upon  a  log.  and 
examined  the  exterior  of  Wilton's  epistle  to  Cora.  He  would 
have  liked  to  read  within — he  examined  the  address — the  seal 
on  which  the  writer's  initials  were  impressed,  and  through  the 
folds,  saw  the  closely  written  page,  the  sight  of  wdiich,  would, 
perhaps,  cause  Cora's  cheek  to  flush  with  happiness.  The 
heart  of  the  fond,  disappointed  parent  beat  with  pleasure  at  the 


308  Isora's    Child. 

thought  of  caushig  his  afflicted  child  even  one  emotion  of  joy 
"  How  much  more  then,"  he  murmured,  "  the  satisfaction  of 
causing  her  heart  to  thrill  with  complete  happiness." 

Colonel  Livingston  tried,  for  the  first  time,  to  separate 
Rufus  Wilton  from  his  parents,  to  view  him  isolated  from  all 
ties  of  kindred,  and  thus  to  look  upon  him.  He  recalled  his 
kindness  to  him  in  an  hour  of  peril,  he  thought  of  his  devoted 
love  for  Cora,  and  his  manly  perseverance,  frank  fearlessness, 
and  the  absence  of  all  duplicity  in  his  course,  and  as  the  bril- 
liant face  of  the  high-souled  youth  came  before  him,  in  this 
hour,  his  heart  for  the  first  time  went  kindly  out  to  meet  him. 

What  had  wrought  this  change  ?  He  was  absent  from  all 
associations  of  the  past,  and  the  utter  desolation  and  depriva- 
tion of  his  daughter's  lot,  came  up  in  bitter  contrast  with  the 
cheerfulness  of  her  former  life.  He  saw  how  ungrateful  he  had 
been,  for  his  beautiful  cottage-home,  and  the  fortune  he  had 
squandered,  because  forsooth,  he  deemed  himself  the  inheritor 
of  a  prouder  tenement  and  richer  possession.  He  saw  himself 
now  bereft  of  all,  and  his  daughter  penniless  ;  and  pride,  the 
foe,  that  had  levelled  them.  He  now  saw  his  enemy  in  his  true, 
and  blackest  colors,  yet  he  had  not  set  his  foot  upon  the  neck 
of  his  foe.  Here  at  Goosegreen,  he  might  welcome  even  a 
Wilton,  as  Cora's  lover,  but  could  he,  in  the  eyes  of  world,  that 
knew  him,  let  her  wed  the  son  of  his  bitterest  enemy.  Yet 
her  happiness  demanded  the  sacrifice,  and  he  walked  back  to 
the  little  wicker-gate,  doubting  and  irresolute.  Cora  had 
returned  home.  He  looked  at  her  affectionately,  but  did  not 
give  her  her  letter.  He  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping,  and 
that  her  eyes  looked  hollow  and  sunken.  He  wished  she  had 
it,  but  if  he  gave  it  to  her,  would  he  not  sanction  the  corres- 
pondence  ? 

That  evening,  after  his  return  from  the  office  of  "The  Rain- 
bow," he  called  her  to  him,  and  asked  her  if  she  was  more 
unwell  than  usual. 

"  No,  papa,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  am  a  little  wearied." 

"  Is  that  all,  my  daughter  ?" 

"  I  wish  I  amid  look  happy,  for  your  sake,  papa,  but  it  is 
hard  to  forget  those  we — love."  Cora's  head  dropped  on  her 
father's  arm,  and  the  long  pent  tears  gushed  forth  freely-— 
uncontrollably. 

"  I  would  rather  that  you  would  be  so  in  earnest,  Cora." 

"  That  can  never  be,  papa." 


Isora's    Child.  309 

"What  stands  in  the  way  of  it,  my  poor  child,  my 
darling  ?" 

"  Pride  and  prejudice,  papa,"  said  Cora,  in  a  melting  tone. 

The  parent's  head  sunk  upon  the  table,  and  thus  pensively 
the  child  and  father  sat  until  the  hour  for  retiring  came.  That 
night,  by  the  midnight  lamp,  Colonel  Livingston  conquered  his 
foes,  and  dispatched  secretly  a  note  to  Rufus  Wilton,  in  which 
he  wrote  : 

"  Your  letter  is  undelivered.  Come  and  give  it  to  her  ynurself.''^ 

The  following  evening,  the  Colonel  went  forth  again  alone. 
Cora  would  have  accompanied  him,  but  he  forebade  her,  and 
told  her  soothingly  to  dress  herself  with  care,  and  to  bathe  her 
eyes,  and  look  happy,  for  he  had  something  bright  in  store 
for  her.  Cora  smiled  so  faintly,  and  so  indifierently  smoothed 
her  golden  tresses,  that  her  father,  for  the  first  time,  fully 
realized  the  change  that  sorrow  had  wrought  in  his  poor  heart- 
sick child,  and  when  he  kissed  her,  and  said  "good  bye,"  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes  as  well  as  hers. 

The  next  evening  Cora  sat  down  in  a  low  wicket-chair, 
where  she  could  see  the  lilac-bush,  the  only  pretty  thing  in  the 
yard,  and  attempted  to  read,  but  her  father  was  gone,  and  she 
had  now  no  fear  of  giving  him  unhappiness,  so  she  indulged  her 
grief,  for  this  had  been  her  saddest,  most  weary  day. 

While  she  thus  sat,  with  her  eyes  on  the  setting  sun,  and 
her  heart  wandering  back  to  the  Hudson,  she  started — she 
heard  a  strange  step — then  a  tap  at  the  door — she  looked 
up  wildly,  the  next  moment  she  was  clasped  in  the  arms  of  her 
iover.  Joy  had  overcome  fear,  she  thought  it  no  wrong,  and 
in  transport  she  clung  to  him,  while  he  whispered — "  I  come  by 
permission  of  your  father.     Cora,  you  are  mine." 

The  astonished  girl  wept  tears  of  joy.  How  noble  and 
beautiful  seemed  the  proud  form  of  him,  who  for  one  moment 
held  her  from  him  to  gaze  rapturously,  tenderly  upon  her 
saddened  loveliness,  but  to  again  press  her  proudly  to  his  heart, 
while  he  called  her  his  own  ! 

Passionately  he  looked  upon  her  pale,  sweet  face,  until 
bright  blushes  kindled,  and  her  sad,  blue  eyes  melted  in  ten- 
derness, till  they  fell  beneath  the  rays  that  like  a  halo  filled 
her  vision. 

What  to  Cora  was  now  the  poor,  cheerless  room,  and  scanty 
furniture  of  her  new  home  !  For  her  father,  she  could  have 
wished  for  more,  but  for  herself,  bliss  was  within  its  precincts 


310  Isora's    Child. 

It  was  a  late  hour  when  the  Colonel  returned,  and  when  he 
appeared,  a  change  seemed  to  have  been  wrought  witliin 
him. 

His  lip  quivered,  and  sorrow  rather  than  pride  sat  on  his 
brow.  His  eyes  were  swollen  as  if  with  tears.  The  sacrifice 
of  feeling  he  had  made  was  felt  and  appreciated  by  the  grateful 
daughter.  In  silence,  she  kissed  the  hand  that  ■  he  laid 
upon  her  young  head,  while  in  a  husky  tone,  he  blessed  her  and 
said  "  Ask  me  not  to  see  him  to-night,  to-morrow  I  will  be  bet- 
ter prepared." 

Cora,  therefore,  returned  alone  to  her  lover.  The  light  of 
pensive  joy  radiated  her  pure  face,  and  in  the  long  hours  that 
fiittt'd  by,  in  the  little  moonlit  parlor  of  the  poor  widow  Smith, 
no  richer  moments  ever  winged  their  flight  beneath  the  crimson 
curtain  in  their  early,  dreamy  hours  of  love,  than  were  now 
enjoyed,  this  first  night  in  the  Goosegreen  cottage. 

The  trials  consequent  on  their  separation,  the  necessary 
abandonment  of  their  home  by  Cora  and  her  father,  and  all 
their  imagined  sufferings  long  engrossed  them — then  came  the 
fond,  earnest  solicitations  from  the  ardent  lover,  that  she  should 
immediately  surrender  herself  into  his  keeping,  and  cease  to 
labor  for  her  support.  Impatiently,  strenuously  he  urged  it ; 
then  came  inquiries  for  her-  present  comfort,  and,  as  if  fond 
endearment  could  cure  all  ills,  he  caressingly  soothed  and 
comforted  his  restored  idol. 

But  the  parthig  good-night  came,  when  Wilton  had  to  seek 
the  country  inn,  and  Cora  her  little  chamber,  which  seemed  no 
longer  comfortless,  so  full  of  joy,  her  heart  was  beating. 

The  meeting  of  the  Colonel  and  Wilton  the  follow^' ug  morn- 
ing was  stiff  and  reserved,  but  the  office  of  "The  Goosegreen 
Rainbow  "  was  near  at  hand,  and  the  music  lessons  absorbed 
but  little  time,  so  that  not  a  nook,  dell,  or  wooded  hollow  was 
ever  coursed  by  squirrel  or  patridge,  that  Wilton  and  Cora  did 
not  find  in  her  father's  absence.  And  strangely  beautiful  her 
fair  face  grew  with  the  happiness  that  lent  it  light  and  joy  ! 
And  if  a  father's  self-denying  feelings  could  be  rewarded  by  a 
daughter's  returning  smiles  and  buoyant  spirits,  the  Colonel  . 
met  with  full  compensation  for  the  sacrifice  he  had  made. 
And  when  with  her,  he  seemed  repaid  ;  but  alone,  he  had  his 
bitter  hours  ;  and  he  felt  none  the  less  enmity  towards  the 
father,  if  he  had  softened  his  prejudice  against  the  son. 

He    met   Wilton    with    punctilious    ceremony,    and    Cora 


Isora's    Child.  311 

marked  her  father's  avoidance  of  lier  lover's  eye,  and  the 
rising  flush  that  kindled  when  the  latter  sometimes  spoke. 

The  Colonel's  love  for  his  daughter  had  efifected  more  than 
the  power  of  man  could  have  done,  and  at  times  he  still 
recoiled  from  the  step  he  had  from  sympathy  and  tenderness 
been  induced  to  take.  Wilton  saw  his  position,  and  his  pride 
was  keenly  wounded  ;  still,  love  for  Cora  was  uppermost  in  his 
heart,  and  he  smothered  the  rebellious  feelings  that  rose  at  the 
thought  of  the  ungracious  recall.  Consciousness  of  full 
equality  sustained  him  in  his  suit,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
grateful  joy  that  at  some  future  day  he  could  restore  the 
Livingston  property  to  its  proper  lineage.  He  thanked  God 
that  at  the  recent  trial,  his  father  had  been  honorably 
acquitted  of  the  fraud  charged  upon  him,  after  a  thorough 
legal  investigation,  and  that  no  evidence  of  wrong  existed  on 
the  part  of  his  father  in  the  maintenance  -of  his  defence. 
Therefore,  with  a  clear  front,  and,  as  he  believed,  with  a  name 
of  undimmed  brightness,  he  sought  the  hand  of  the  daughter 
of  the  proud,  but  poor,  Edward  Livingston.  He  had  not  for- 
gotten the  taunts  of  the  latter,  but  he  forgave  them. 

Wilton  passed  a  week  at  Goosegreen,  and  a  sensation  he 
made  throughout  the  village.  Everybody  knew  the  day  after 
his  arrival,  that  the  handsome  stranger  had  come  to  visit  the 
beautiful  Miss  Livingston,  and  if  any  villager  had  lacked  the 
information,  it  was  not  Mrs.  Jonson's  fault.  He  had  a  deli- 
cious visit  with  Cora,  and  left  her  with  a  heart  light  as  her 
bounding  step,  while  the  playful  tenderness  of  her  winning 
smiles,  threw  again  their  old  charm  over  her  freshened  beauty. 
Anticipation  of  again  meeting  her  cheered  the  sad  parting,  and 
so  many  promises  Cora  made  to  her  lover  not  to  weary  herself 
with  teaching  anybody  but  himself,  that  he  went  away  full  of 
hope  that  her  days  of  toil  would  soon  be  over,  and  that  a  ha}> 
pier  home  awaited  her,  than  she  could  find  in  the  rosiest  bower 
in  Goosegreen. 

The  Colonel  had  bowed  his  adieu  as  stiffly  as  ever,  but 
Wilton  felt  that  he  had  come  at  his  own  bidding  to  see  his 
daughter,  and  Cora  had  succeeded  at  last  in  getting  her  letter, 
every  word  of  which  she  treasured,  and  what  was  still  better, 
more  of  them  were  promised,  and  to  come  directly  to  herself. 
So  happiness  had  found  its  way  into  the  humblest  cot,  and 
where  last  of  all,  poor  Cora  had  ever  dreamed  of  enjoying  it, 
at  old  Widow  Smith's,  in  the  valley  of  Goosegreen. 


312  Isora's    Child. 

But  while  such  a  turn  in  affairs  had  taken  place  with  Cora 
and  her  father,  Mr.  Clarendon  was  reproaching  himself  for  not 
preventing  so  much  misery  as  he  had  caused,  and  in  fancy  saw 
Cora  dying  of  consumption,  and  the  Colonel  frozen  into  an 
icicle,  in  the  depths  of  wretchedness  and  despair.  He  pitied 
Cora  from  his  heart,  angry  as  she  had  made  him,  and  his  pre- 
sent desire  was  to  reinstate  them  at  Yillacora  ;  but  this  he 
knew,  could  only  be  done  by  securing  them  independence.  He 
therefore  resolved  to  seek  business  for  the  Colonel,  and  to  lease 
the  premises  of  his  old  home  to  him,  the  debt  to  remain  pay- 
able at  the  expiration  of  a  term  of  years.  This  inducement,  he 
felt  confident,  would  win  back  the  Colonel,  and  relieve  Cora 
from  the  feeling  of  obligation. 

Accordingly  the  week  after  Wilton  left  Goosegreen,  the  Colo- 
nel received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Clarendon,  proposing  to  him  to 
lend  him  assistance  in  the  settlement  of  some  estates  of  persons 
lately  deceased  in  the  neighborhood  of  Yillacora.  He  flattered 
the  Colonel  into  the  belief  that  he  could  thus  make  himself 
essentially  and  profitably  useful,  and  thus  return  independently 
to  his  old  home,  which  he  informed  him,  was  awaiting  his  arri- 
val in  its  old  state. 

He  expressed  his  regret  that  the  Colonel  had  ever  left  the 
premises,  which  vvas  against  his  wish  or  knowledge,  and  that  he 
hoped  Miss  Cora  would  not  become  so  attached  to  Goosegreen 
as  to  regret  her  return  to  her  friends. 

Colonel  Livingston  was  elated  with  Mr.  Clarendon's  letter, 
and  though  "  The  Rainbow"  was  becoming  daily  more  popular, 
he  was  easily  led  to  abandon  its  editorship,  and  to  proclaim 
that  Goosegreen  was  not  like  the  shores  of  the  Hudson.  Cora 
smiled  through  her  tears  at  the  prospect  of  going  home,  but 
not  until  she  was  thoroughly  convinced  that  they  could  live 
independent  of  favor  from  Mr.  Clarendon,  would  she  consent  to 
the  change. 

She  and  the  good  widow  had  become  excellent  friends,  and 
the  yellow-haired  girl  was  "never  so  beat  in  her  life"  as  at 
Cora's  declared  intention  of  leaving  before  the  "quilting  bee" 
was  to  come  off.  Mrs.  Jonson,  too,  had  been  as  far  as  the 
gate  several  times  to  invite  Cora  to  take  tea  with  her,  but  the 
Colonel  was  always  in  the  door-way,  and  she  said  if  there  wns 
"ever  a  man  that  she  despised,  it  was  Captin  Livestone." 

But  Cora  knew  little  about  the  feelings  of  the  Goosegreeners, 
and  with  mingled  emotions  of  joy  and  perplexity  prepared  to 


()  R  A    S 


Child.  313 


return  to  Yillacora.  They  had  beeu  absent  ten  months,  and 
arrived  there  the  last  of  the  season,  when  vegetation  was  rich 
with  summer  verdure. 

Mr  Clarendon  had  sent  word  to  Sophy  and  Judy  to  have  the 
house  in  preparation  for  them,  and  for  the  gardener  to  resume 
his  place.  He.  was  anxious  to  restore  the  old  state  of  things, 
and  to  obliterate,  if  possible,  the  remembrance  of  the  injury  that 
he  had  occasioned  to  the  feelings  of  both  Cora  and  her  father. 
He  remembered  Cora's  paleness  and  depression  before  she  left, 
and  scarcely  looked  for  the  resemblance  of  her  former  self. 
But  a  fortnight  of  happiness  had  worked  a  magical  change  in 
her  youthful  face,  and  when  she  returned  to  her  old  home  it 
was  radiant  with  bloom  and  beauty.  Her  soft  blue  eyes  were 
glistening  with  tearful  joy,  and  the  rich  red  lips  from  which 
accents  of  gratitude  fell,  quivered  a  little  as  she  met"  the  wel- 
come that  awaited  her. 

Her  father  realized  that  Yillacora  was  no  longer  his,  but  it 
was  home  after  all,  and  in  his  heart  he  thanked  Mr.  Clarendon 
for  the  favor  he  had  done  him,  in  the  inducement  he  had  held 
out  for  his  return.  The  business  which  he  had  also  procured 
for  him  .precisely  suited  him,  and  his  sojourn  at  Goosegreen 
had  had  the  effect  of  producing  contentment  with  his  present 
lot. 

Mr.  Clarendon  knew  nothing  of  Rufus  Wilton's  visit  to 
Cora,  and  would  as  soon  have  believed  in  a  change  in  tlie 
course  of  the  planets  as  that  the  Colonel  could  have  become 
reconciled  to  his  daughter's  engagement  to  him.  But  he 
knew  little  of  the  anguish  Cora's  quiet  unmurmuring  suffering 
had  occasioned  her  father,  and  how  much  trial  of  feehng  it  had 
cost  him  before  he  could  sanction  the  addresses  of  her  young 
lover.  Still,  his  assent  could  scarcely  be  considered  reconcili- 
ation, and  with  all  Cora's  happiness,  she  felt  the  coldness  that 
was  exhibited  by  her  father  towards  Wilton.  Mingled  with  this 
was  the  feeling,  that  there  was  probably  another  to  reconcile, 
and  she  felt  embarrassment  apjaroaching  to  dread  at  the  idea 
of  meeting  the  parent  of  her  noble  Kufus. 

She  had  seen  him  often  as  he  had  passed  the  grounds, 
wrapped  in  his  mysterious  veil  of  gloom,  that  like  a  pall  ever 
enshrouded  him.  There  was  something  that  savored  of  romance 
to  her  young  imagination,  in  his  dark,  haggard  face,  and  in  the 
erect  form  that  seemed  as  he  walked,  unsocial  and  alone  to 
forbid  communion.     Her  eye  had  always  lingered  upon  him 

U 


314:  Isora's    Child. 

and  she  had  often  wondered  how  any  woman  had  evrr  dareG 
to  love  hhn,  and  where  that  beautiful  beiui^  was,  that  had  left 
hira  in  his  youth,  while  yet  his  bride.  And  now  that  she  was 
to  become  the  wife  of  his  only  sou  and  heir,  she  felt  more  than 
ever  a  dread  of  him,  and  frreat  solicitude  lest  he  should  hate 
her,  as  her  father  had  her  lover. 

And  those  sentiments  were  not  long  unrevealed,  for  through 
the  servants  it  became  known  to  Cora  that  fearful  imprecations 
by  Mr.  Wilton  had  been  poured  upon  the  head  of  his  son,  for 
his  visit  to  Goosegreen.  She  heard,  also,  that  though  pale 
and  indignant,  Kufus  had  made  no  reply,  and  she  hourly  looked 
for  him  at  Yillacora. 

Mr.  Clarendon  had  met  them  on  their  arrival  home,  and 
although  he  felt  sympathy  and  some  triumph  at  the  thought  of 
Cora's  painful  situation,  and  at  the  mortification  her  pride  must 
have  endured  at  Goosegreen,  still  he  was  more  piqued  and 
cuagrined  on  her  return,  at  the  sight  of  her  soft,  blooming  beauty. 
Though  his  eye  feasted  on  the  loveliness  of  her  freshened  charms, 
still,  his  pride  was  wounded,  for  poverty  and  trial  had  failed  to 
subdue  her,  and  its  crushing  weight  had  brought  her  no  nearer 
to  him.  He  had  eagerly  looked  for  her  wan,  dejected  face,  and 
anticipated  much  pleasure  in  restoring  her,  through  the  change 
that  he  should  effect,  to  her  old  happiness  and  bloom. 

Cora  received  him  with  a  kind  welcome,  for  she  had  forgiven 
the  past;  but  in  vain  he  looked  for  sorrow  in  the  sweet  smile 
that  greeted  him.  In  the  tears  that  moistened  her  eyes,  joy 
only  glittered,  and  in  the  happiness  that  sat  on  her  brow,  cheek, 
and  lip,  he  read  the  full  serenity  of  a  heart  at  peace. 

She  had  no  tale  to  tell  of  the  horrors  of  a  country  village,  or 
of  the  vulgar  society  with  which  she  was  compelled  to  mingle,  but 
so  nmch  to  say  of  the  beautiful  scenery,  and  the  grassy  loveliness 
of  the  place,  that  Mr.  Clarendon  half  sarcastically  said  that  it 
was  almost  a  pity  that  she  had  returned. 

"  I  have  learned,"  said  Cora,  "that  happiness  does  not  depend 
upon  locality.  I  could  be  happier  at  Goosegreen,  conselous  of 
being  in  the  right  path,  than  in  a  city,  surrounded  by  all  the 
luxuries  of  wealth." 

"And  has  this  been  all  that  has  made  you  so  happy?" 

"  No.  God  has  richly  blessed  my  efforts  in  what  I  considered 
my  duty.  It  is  difficult,  sometimes,  to  know  what  is  right;  but 
if  we  seek  wisdom,  I  believe  we  shall  be  guided,  and  I  shall 
never  regret  my  country  sojourn.'" 


Isoka's    Child.  315 

"  But  one  would  think  it  Had  proved  an  Elysium.  Pray,  what 
were  its  peculiar  charms  ?"  said  Clarendon. 

"It  is  not  luxury  that  is  satisfying,"  said  Cora;  "for  when 
we  suffer  privation,  we  can  better  see  our  insignificance,  in 
contrast  with  Him  upon  whom  we  all  depend,  and  who  can 
bring  light  out  of  darkness.  The  lowly  are  more  inclined  to 
look  within  and  above,  than  those  who  rely  upon  the  riches  of 
the  world.  Moderate  comforts,  at  least,  make  us  appreciate 
greater." 

"How  did  your  father  philosophize?  I  regret  much  that  he 
had  this  trial,  but  I  had  not  time  to  prevent  it." 

"My  father  is  none  the  worse  for  the  visit,  but  much  happier. 
Do  you  not  think  that  affliction  softens  the  heart,  and  sometimes 
frees  it  from  the  shackles  which  have  bound  it  in  error?  He 
has  more  se/f-reWance  too,  now,  than  before  he  went  away." 

"You  prefer,  then,  that  he  should  receive  no  assistance  from 
others  ?" 

"  Mr.  Clarendon,  I  am  not  ungrateful  for  such  assistance  as 
will  lead  my  father  to  look  to  his  own  energies  for  deliverance 
from  debt.  You  know  the  dream  of  his  life,  and  it  is  certainly 
no  kindness  to  aid  that  delusion.  When  you  furnish  him 
employment,  you  confer  the  only  obligation  for  which  I  am 
grateful,  and  such  remuneration  as  compensates  for  his  services. 
More,  it  would  be  painful  to  me  that  he  should  receive." 

The  character  and  independence  of  feeling  that  Cora  exhibited, 
seemed  so  little  consistent  with  her  delicate,  childlike  beauty, 
and  youtliful  expression,  that  Mr.  Clarendon  listened  wonderingly 
and  half  incredulously  to  observations  that  seemed  to  him  so 
forefgn  to  her  nature  and  years.  He  saw  that  she  was  not  one 
to  be  bribed,  and  that  to  win  her  favor,  he  must  first  secure  her 
honest  res})ect.  He  was  half  irritated  with  this  exhibition  of 
her  character,  for  adoration  of  him  was  the  essential  quality  he 
required  in  the  woman  of  his  choice.  Thus  was  Mr.  Clarendon 
led  on  by  a  love  of  victory  rather  than  by  passion,  to  conquer 
what  he  considered  pride  and  obstinacy  in  Cora,  and  which, 
though  they  disappointed  him,  the  more  difficult  she  became 
to  win,  seemed  still  more  to  exalt  the  prize. 

The  Colonel  had  entered  heart  and  soul  into  his  plans,  and 
with  aroused  energy  of  which  he  had  not  supposed  himself 
capable,  commenced  the  business,  which  promised  fully  to 
occupy  his  time,  and  aff"ord  him  a  maintenance. 

Rufus  Wilton  soon  heard  of  Cora's  return,  and  the.  same 


316  Isoka's    Child. 

eyening  found  him  enjoying  with  her,  the  pleasures  of  a  summer 
nig'ht  on  the  lawn. 

They  were  walking  together  when  Mr.  Clarendon  caught  a 
view  of  them,  as  he  came  from  the  Colonel's  office,  where  he 
had  been  for  some  hours  closeted.  As  he  approached  the  house, 
Judy  came  up  behind  him  and  said, 

"  Miss  Cory  can't  reach  the  plums  half  as  well  as  ht  can — 
can  she '/" 

Mr.  Clarendon  turned  suddenly,  when  the  speaker  slid  into 
the  gooseberry-bush,  and  he  was  as  much  amazed  as  at  any 
juggler's  performance,  to  see  her  walking  unharmed  the  next 
moment,  a  rod  off,  towards  the  poultry-yard. 

The  same  glance  revealed  Cora  and  Wilton,  as  they  stood  in 
the  orchard  ;  he  with  his  hand  resting  upon  her  shoulder,  while 
she  showed  him,  playfully,  a  large  plum,  which  she  refused  to 
give  him.  Her  hat  was  laid  aside,  while  around  her  head,  and 
over  her  shoulders,  she  had  thrown  a  scarf  of  black  lace,  which 
lay  like  a  fleecy  cloud  about  her  snowy  neck. 

Clarendon  looked  upon  the  pair  admiringly,  for  an  instant, 
while  Cora's  fairy  beauty  held  him  fascinated.  The  next,  rage 
overpowered  him,  and  turning  on  his  heel,  he  entered  the  ofiice 
he  had  left. 

"  Colonel  Livingston,"  said  he,  with  ill-disguised  feeling, 
"  does  that  scene  meet  with  your  approbation  ?" 

The  Colonel  came  forward  and  saw  the  tableau  beneath  the 
plum-trees.  On  the  glowing  beauty  and  happiness  of  his 
daughter's  face  was  his  gaze  fixed. 

"Which  is  best,"  said  he,  solemnly,  "to  see  her  thus,  or  to 
carry  her  to  her  grave  ?" 

"  I  thought,"  said  Mr,  Clarendon,  with  suppressed  feelings, 
*'  that  you  had  too  much  pride  thus  to  win  back  the  estate  of 
your  parent.  Has  the  son  or  the  father  consoled  your  disap- 
pointment ?" 

When  Colonel  Livingston  had  once  shaken  off  the  chains 
that  had  bound  him,  and  by  a  re-lease  of  his  property  had 
made  himself  free,  his  tongue  also  became  loosened  with  his 
spirit. 

"  Neither,"  he  replied,  with  frankness.  "  I  asked  my  heart 
which  it  was  best  to  cherish — hatred  towards  the  innocent,  or 
my  child's  happiness." 

If  ever  Mr.  Clarendon  wished  the  whole  party  defunct,  it 
was  at  that  moment.     Where  was  now   his  hope,  when  the 


Isora's    Child.  31T 

father  had  deserted  his  cause  ?  and  what  was  more  aggravating, 
the  change  was  all  brought  about  by  the  salutary  air  of  Goost- 
green,  and  the  poverty  which  carried  them  there. 

"  Is  this  the  first  time  they  have  met,  with  your  sanction  V 
said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

**No,"  replied  the  Colonel,  "they  w^ere  a  week  together  at 
— Goosegreen." 

Thus  had  Mr.  Clarendon  defeated  his  own  ends,  and  the  sor- 
row and  humbled  pride  that  he  had  hoped  would  drive  Cora  to 
him  for  relief  and  succor,  had  worked  in  another's  favor,  and 
the  darts  which  he  would  have  af&xed  in  the  breasts  of  the 
suffering,  recoiled  upon  himself. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

Oh  !  rose  of  May  ! 
Dear  maid,  kind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia  ! 
0  Heavens !  is  it  possible,  a  young  maid's  wits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life? 

•  SUAKSPEARE. 

THE  following  week  Rufus  Wilton  went  to  New  York,  to 
remain  a  few  days.  As  usual  he  sought  his  friend,  Mrs. 
Linden.  The  affection^jte  interest  which  she  had  ever  mani- 
fested in  his  happiness,  was  a  balm  -which  he  had  loved  in 
earlier  years,  in  the  vexations  of  life  ;  and  now,  that  the  great- 
est joy  of  his  existence  was  secured,  he  craved  her  sympathy. 

His  father  had  cursed  him  in  bitter  language  for  his  choice, 
but  as  the  words  came  from  his  lips,  like  low,  rolling  thunder, 
he  feared  no  evil  from  the  accompanying  flash. 

He  found  his  friend  overjoyed  to  see  him  ;  and  as  she  came 
forward  to  greet  him,  he' scarcely  observed  that  she  had  been 
suffering  since  he  saw  her^  and  that  her  eyes  were  red  from 
weeping. 

As  he  entered  the  apartment  where  he  usually  found  her,  a 
form  glided  from  the  room  which  arrested  his  attention. 

Flora  Islington  had  looked  up  as  he  came  in,  and  thrown 
aside  her  book,  while  with  a  timid,  half-startled  expression  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and  the  next  moment  passed  out  of 


318  Isoea's    Child. 

sight,  but  not  until  Wilton  had  observ^ed  her  graceful  form,  and 
the  loveliness  of  a  countenance  that  reminded  him  more  of  a 
picture  than  of  anything  human.  For  a  few  moments  he  could 
not  sp3ak,  so  captivated  was  he  in  the  glance  which  he  had  of 
Flora.  He  thought  that  he  had  seen  her  before,  and  soon 
remembered  that  on  the  night  of  his  visit  with  Cora  to  see 
Mrs.  Linden,  that  she  had  lain  fainting  before  them  as  they 
left  for  home. 

"  Pray,  who  is  that  beautiful  girl  ?"  said  Wilton  to  his  friend, 
after  he  had  recovered  from  his  surprise. 

*•  She  is  my  adopted  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Linden.  "  She  is 
a  strange  girl,  and  avoids  society.  There  are  few  more  calcu- 
lated to  adorn  it,  but  she  is  morbidly  sensitive,  and  shuns  every 
one  but  me." 

"  She  seems  happy — her  expression  is  lovely." 

"  Yes,  at  times  she  appears  angelic.  She  reads  too  much  for 
her  mental  health,  and  is  so  absorbed  with  the  ideal,  that  I 
fear  that  she  will  never  rationally  enjoy  the  reahties  of  life.  She 
inclines  to  be  a  transcendentalist,  likes  German  literature,  and  is 
often  wild,  seemingly,  with  her  vagaries  and  dreams — but  I 
trust  that  her  mind  will  yet  become  balanced,  and  that  she  will 
act  more  and  dream  less. 

"  Has  she  any  aim  in  life?  this-constitutes  everything  to  the 
ambitious.     Has  she  any  one  to  live  for  but  herself?" 

"  She  ought  to  have,  to  be  happy;  I  have  aspired  to  this  in 
my  education  of  her,  to  lead  her  to  forget  herself,  and  to  live 
for  others." 

"  Self-love  is  so  engrafted  in  human  nature,  that  it  is  difficult 
to  root  it  from  its  base,  and  its  gratification,  we  cannot  expect 
to  be  entirely  neglected.  But  one  with  her  physiognomy  was 
never  selfish — she  is  full  of  fervent  feeling,  and  capable  of  power- 
ful emotion.  I  can  read  that  in  her  eye.  Why  does  she  so  shun 
society  ?" 

'•That  is  her  own  secret,  dear  E,ufus.  I  wish  you  could 
draw  her  from  seclusion,  and  make  her  more  cheerful.  Perhaps 
a  strans^er  could  bring  her  mind  to  its  natural  tone." 

"  Was  she  ever  gay  ?" 

"The  morning  lark  was  not  gayer  than  poor  Flora." 

"  I  will  try  to  che(ir  her  if  she  is  sad — but  she  fled  like  a 
frightened  bird  ;  cannot  you  lure  her  back  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so,  if  you  seem  to  be  reading." 

Rufus  Wilton  resorted  to  a  book,  when  Mrs.  Linden  called 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  319 

Flora  from  the  next  room,  and  asked  her  some  questions  rela- 
tive to  her  work. '  Flora  saw  from  the  door  that  Mrs.  Linden 
was  alone,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  As  she  did  so,  she 
inquired  with  the  gnilessness  of  atdiiUl  who  he  was,  and  added, 
"  his  eyes  are  like  yours.     I  would  like  him  for  that." 

*'  He  would  like  you,  if  he  knew  you.  Don't  run  away  when 
he  comes  again;  he  won^t  speak  to'you  if  you  don't  wish  him  to." 

"  Oh  !  1  don't  see  any  one  7wm',"  said  Flora  plaintively.  "  I 
go  by  myself,  and  strange,  beautiful  beings  come  and  sit 
beside  me.  Yesterday  a  little  child  with  dark  eyes  and  golden 
curls,  came  and  nestled  in  my  arms.  Some  day  it  will  prove 
true.  Then  I  shall  dream  of  the  old  library  and  Sappho,  and 
of  him.  I  cannot  help  it — is  it  wrong  ? — if  so,  wdiy  does  God 
put  him  so  much  in  my  heart  ?" 

"  But,  Flora,  I  wish  you  to  know  my  friend.  He  will 
be  very  kind  to  yon." 

"Is  he  like  you  ?"  said  Flora,  starting. 

*'  Come,  Kufus,"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  quietly,  "  let  me  intro 
duce  you.'^ 

Rufus  Wilton  'threw  down  his  book,  and  as  he  approached 
Flora,  she  bowed  and  smiled  faintly,  but  the  habit  of  fleeing 
was  so  habitual  to  her,  that  she  rose  instantly  to  go. 

Wilton  made  an  eflfort  to  draw  her  attention  to  his  book, 
and  before  he  had  read  her  one  paragraph  she  quietly  listened. 
Mrs.  Linden  seemed  delighted  at  the  sudden  fancy  of  Flora 
to  her  young  friend,  and  asked  her  to  sing  to  him.  She 
instantly  complied,  and  in  a  bird  song  swelled  her  voice  to  its 
full  extent  and  sweetness.  Wilton  was  charmed  with  her 
singular  grace  and  beauty,  and  wondered  what  it  was  that 
made  her  seem  so  peculiarly  constituted. 

That  she  had  been  educated,  and  had  the  exercise  of  her 
mind  and  tastes  was  apparent,  still  there  w^as  an  unsettled 
wandering  in  her  eye  that  disturbed  him  when  he  looked  at 
her.  She  became,  while  he  sat  by  her,  confiding,  and  even  laid 
her  soft  hand  on  his,  while  she  said — ■ 

"  Your  hair  is  like  hers,  too.     Did  you  ever  have  a  sister  ?" 

"  No,  Flora,  never.     Will  you  be  one  to  me  ?" 

For  an  instant  she  looked  earnestly  upon  Wilton.  Then, 
while  her  eyes  expanded,  she  said  almost  inaudibly  : 

"  He  said  so  to  me.  Yes,  my  guardian  bade  me  come  and 
be  his  sister.  I  cannot  be  a  sister  to  any  one  but  him.  Has 
lie  another  sister  V 


320 


Wilton  was  now  satisfied  that  Flora  was  affected  by  some 
monomania  that  unsettled  her  brain,  which  was  the  cause  of 
her  strange,  pecuhar  wildness,  and  sudden  exclamations  upon 
irrelevant  topics.  , 

"  Who  is  your  guardian,  Flora  V  said  Wilton. 

"  Don't  speak  of  him,"  whispered  Mrs.  Linden. 

"  Oh,  he  is  coming  for  me>  but  I  cannot  go  to  him  Why 
not  ? — he  loves  Flora.     Who  else  should  love  her  ?-' 

Both  the  little  white  hands  were  now  placed  on  Wilton's 
arm,  while  the  young  girl  talked  incoherently,  as  Mrs.  Linden 
had  never  heard  her  before.  The  latter  became  suddenly 
alarmed,  and  growing  almost  frantic,  screamed,  "  Oh,  my  God  I 
she  has  lost  her  reason.  1 

Flora  did  not  seem  to  regard  her  friend,  but  while  her  eyes 
suddenly  roved  from  object  to  object,  she  muttered  low  words 
conveying  no  meaning. 

"  Oh,  may  God  forgive  me,  if  this  is  added  to  my  sins.  I 
have  caused  this  wreck.  Yes,  I  have  crazed  thee,  my  poor 
Flora  ;  but  I  acted  in  kindness;  it  was  to  save  thee  from  /w??j." 

"From  uhovil  Oh,  tell  me  Mrs.  Linden,"  exclaimed 
Wilton. 

"  No,  no  !  my  poor  Flora  1"  Mrs.  Linden,  for  the  first  tmi.e 
was  roused  to  a  sense  of  Flora's  w^andering  intellect.  She  had 
been  insensible,  hitherto,  to  her  strange  mood,  and  now  was 
unwilling  to  beheve  that  she  was  seriously  deranged. 

She  called  her  to  come  near  to  her.  Flora  obeyed,  and  laid 
her  head  on  her  lap,  and  sung  low  snatches  of  songs.  Then, 
while  she  clasped  both  her  hands  upon  her  forehead,  sho 
screamed,  "  I  see  him  !  I  see  him  1  hide  me  I  hide  me  !" 

"  Who  is  coming,  my  poor  darling  ?"  Flora  made  no  reply, 
but  continued  to  rave  and  mutter  low  unintelligible  words. 
Mrs.  Linden  sobbed  in  anguish,  while  she  exclaimed,  "  /  have 
done  it — /  have  done  it  ;  but  for  iae,  she  might  have  been 
bright,  happy,  and  beautiful." 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Flora,  "  you  killed  me — poor  Flora  I 
Tell  him  to  come  and  cure  her — she  is  sick,  and  they  have 
carried  her  away.     Poor  Flora,  let  her  go  homeP 

"  Why  do  you  reproach  yourself,  my  dear  friend.  You  have 
done  w^ell,  I  am  confident,  whatever  the  case  may  be,"  said 
Wilton. 

"  Oh,  shall  I  send  for  Jiini  now  ?  Can  he  cure  her  ?  What 
shall  we  do  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Linden,  anxiously. 


Isoka's    Guild.  321 

''  Who  ?" 

"  Her  old  guardian,  Mr.  Clarendon.'* 

"  Is  this  poor  girl  the  ward  that  he  adopted  ?" 

"  She  is,  arid  I  stole  her  from  him,  and  I  have  deprived  her 
of  reason.  Oh,  God,  forgive  me  if  I  erred  in  this  !  Is  it  not 
enough,  all  tbat  I  have  in  store  for  thee,  poor  Rufus  !" 

"  Are  yo^i,  too,  deranged?"  said  Wilton.  "My  friend,  be 
Cialra.     Let  us  lay  Flora  down,  she  is  now  sleeping." 

The  poor  girl  seemed  in  a  dreamy  slumber.  Mrs.  Lindeu 
a})plied  restoratives  to  her  head,  and  by  cooling  applications, 
trusted  to  soothe  her  brain.  Her  sleep  became  heavy  and 
deep,  and  Wilton  was  encouraged  that  when  she  should  awake, 
her  delirium  would  have  passed  off.  But  not  so  Mrs.  Linden  ; 
her  groans  were  heart-rending  to  hear,  and  mingled  with 
reproaches  for  the  misery  she  had  brought  upon  Flora.  She 
uttered  such  mysterious  lamentations  for  the  sufferings  that 
she  was  doomed  to  bring  on  another  still  dearer,  that,  with 
imploring  earnestness,  Wilton  begged  her  to  confide  in  him  all 
her  trouble,  and  to  allow  him  to  assist  her. 

''  Confide  in  you  ?"  said  she,  turning  pale.  You,  for  whom, 
for  four-and-twenty  years  I  have  borne  the  anguish  of  a  guilty 
conscience.  Yes,  but  for  you  I  should  have  rested  in  my 
grave,  while  my  secret  had  been  long  ere  this  revealed.  Ah, 
poor  Flora  !  sad  has  been  thy  lot.  But  what  is  the  loss  of 
reason,  to  the  brand  of  guilt,  and  the  burden  of  a  heavy 
conscience." 

"  You  make  me  very,  very  sad,  ray  friend,"  said  Rufus  Wil- 
ton, while  he  looked  upon  the  workings  of  the  noble  features 
of  the  woman  who  spoke,  such  as  he  had  never  before  witnessed 
in  her.  "  If  you  have  stolen  the  ward  from  a  guardian's  care, 
some  good  motive  has  prompted  you  to  the  act,  and  to  God 
you  may  leave  the  consequences.  As  to  the  rest,  I  am  still  in 
darkness.  I  will  not  leave  you  until  Flora  has  awakened.  I 
came  to  tell  you  of  my  happiness,  and  instead,  I  have  been  sad- 
dened by  hearing  of  your  misery." 

"  Are  you  happy  if"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  wringing  her  hands  ; 
"  and  have  I  wept  and  struggled  with  my  heart  for  naught  ? 
Is  it  of  no  avail,  that  I  have  prayed  for  strength  to  reveal  my 
tale,  and  that  with  humiliation,  in  the  dust  and  ashes  of  a  peni- 
tent spirit,  1  have  resolved  to  do  it,  and  that  your  happiness 
is  enough  to  palsy,  even  now,  my  tongue  ?" 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  Mrs.   Linden,  I   know  not  how  sorrowful 


322  Isoka's    Child. 

your  tale  may  be,  but  whatever  burden  you  may  bear,  I  will 
gladly  share  it  with  you,  and  relieve  you  if  I  cau.  But  you 
must  hear  from  my  own  lips  first,  of  all  the  bliss  in  store  for 
me.  My  heart  beats  with  thrilling  emotion  while  1  speak,  for 
Cora  Livingston  is  mine.  By  her  father's  consent,  she  has 
plighted  to  me  her  hand,  and  greater  joy  on  earth  I  cannot  ask 
of  heaven." 

"  And  has  Edward  Livingston,  with  all  his  pride,  given  to 
you,  Rufus,  his  daughter  ?" 

"  What  has  pride  to  do  with  this  precious  gift,  my  friend  ? 
Except  in  years,  am  I  not  his  equal  ?  and,  more  than  this,  can 
I  not,  by  this  alliance,  restore  to  his  child,  at  my  father's 
death,  her  grandfather's  estate  ?  Would  that  it  had,  by  his 
will,  become  her  inheritance,  instead  of  falling  into  the  hands 
of  him  who  now  holds  it." 

"  Would  that  it  had  !  then  /  had  been  less  guilty,"  oaid 
Mrs.  Linden. 

"  Are  you,  too,  bereft  of  reason  ?  Where  are  your  w^ordis 
of  congratulation  ?  Why  do  you  not  say,  as  I  expected,  *  God 
bless  you  both,  dear  Rufus  ?'  You  talk  to  me  of  guilt,  instead 
— of  sorrow  at  my  happiness." 

'*  And  do  you  love  her  fondly,  Rufus — so  that  it  would  be 
hard  to  give  her  up  ?" 

"  Love  her,  my  friend  ?  You  may  ask  me  first,  to  part  with 
life.  And  why  should  I  do  it  ?  Is  she  not  mine,  by  the  love 
of  her  pure  heart,  by  the  betrothal  of  her  hand,  and  by  the 
consent  of  the  father  who  idolizes  her  ?" 

**  And  you  could  never  disgrace  her  name — cause  her  to 
blush  for  the  name  of  Wilton  ?" 

**  Your  language  is  mysterious.  I  enter  upon  the  world 
with  a  fair  tame — life  is  before  me,  for  I  am  young  in  years, 
and  if  aught  could  preserve  my  name  unsullied,  love  for  her 
could  do  it.  I  know  no  reason  why  I  am  to  be  basely  feared 
of  doing  future  wrong.  Cora  is  poor,  and  I  thank  God  for 
that.  Jf  she  were  rich,  I  might  shrink  from  asking  her  to 
wed  me." 

"  And  how  have  vou  subsisted  for  vears — since  your  birth, 
dear  Rufus  ?" 

"  On  UT}'  father's  honest  means,  until  recently,  when  he  gave 
me  a  portion  of  his  estate." 

"  What  induced  him  to  do  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Linden. 

*'  I  know  not — it  was  strange  in  him.     I  had  often  urged 


Isora's    Child.  323 

him  to  make  me  independent,  for  I  knew  that  he  was  able  so 
to  do,  but  he  one  day  received  a  letter,  that  he  tore  in  frag- 
ments before  my  face.  In  that  hour,  he  conveyed  to  me  the 
property,  which  has  since  made  me  free  from  demands  upon 
him." 

Mrs.  Linden's  face  grew  ashy  white,  while  Rufus  Wilton 
spoke,  then,  straggling  to  be  calm,  she  said  : 

"  And  you  are  happy  ?  tell  me  that  again — ring  it  in  my 
ears,  until  I  hear  it  drowning  all  other  sounds — benumbing  all 
other  senses,  but  the  one  that  tells  me  of  your  bliss.  Rufas, 
let  me  not  have  suffered  in  vain  ;  let  me  not  have  carried  for 
four-and-twenty  years  this  heavy  burden,  and  all  for  naught. 
If  you  are  happy,  go,  Rufus,  and  let  me  suffer  on." 

"  Why  do  you  so  insanely  talk  ?  Why  must  my  happiness 
be  bought  at  the  expense  of  your  suffering?"  said  Wilton. 

Mrs.  Linden  seemed  regardless  of  the  question  addressed 
her,  and  continued,  "  But  I  did  not  mean  to  kill  poor  Flora. 
Must  all  for  whom  I  live,  feel  the  deadly  blight  of  guilt  ?  I 
would  have  had  her  innocent — for  this,  I  saved  her,  and  thus 
Bhe  has  lost  her  reason — bright,  beautiful,  gifted  Flora ! 
Why,  why  did  not  thy  lover  wed  thee,  and  save  me  this  deadly 
blow?  is  it  a  punishment  for  mj  sins  to  oty^rsl  Accursed 
has  been  my  fate,  and  doubly  thine  whose  treachery  and  guilt 
has  made  me  privy  to  thy  secret." 

With  these  words,  Mrs.  Linden  sunk  exhausted  by  the 
couch  of  the  pale  Flora,  whose  slumber  continued  peaceful, 
while  Wilton  listened  in  amazement  and  grief,  to  the  ravings 
of  his  weeping  friend. 

In  vain  he  begged  her  to  explain  to  him  the  sorrow  that 
seemed  to  crush  her  to  the  earth.  What  had  her  life  of  suf 
fering  to  do  with  his  happiness  ?  he  asked.  Her  incoherent 
talk  seemed  to  him  wilder  than  the  softer  wanderings  of  Flora 
and  yet  intelligence  too  clearly  beamed  in  her  eye,  and  spoke  in 
each  pale  feature,  to  doubt  the  absence  of  her  reason. 

Through  the  long  watches  of  the  night,  Mrs.  Linden  and 
Rufus  Wilton  sat  by  the  side  of  Flora,  who  continued  calm 
and  peaceful,  and  awoke  at  dawn,  rational  and  pleasant.  Her 
delirium  had  been  brief,  but  Wilton  feared  that  at  night  it 
might  return,  and  advised  immediate  medical  assistance.  Mrs 
Linden's  wretchedness  seemed  somewhat  relieved  with  Flora's 
return  of  reason,  and  as  she  was  about  to  part  with  Wilton, 
she  told  him  to  try  tc  forget  her  wild  words,  that  her  life  was 


324-  Isoka's    Child. 

one  tale  of  sorrow,  and  if  she  could  only  see  and  know  him 
happy,  that  her  work  on  earth  was  done.  But  Wilton  again 
returned,  he  could  not  leave  her  thus,  and  said  : 

"  But  is  this  justice,  my  dear  friend?  Is  it  right  that  you 
should  suffer  for  others,  without  sympathy,  without  consola- 
tion ?     This  you  say  you  do — I  know  not  how." 

"Do  you  talk  to  me  of  justice,  Rufus  ?  Shall  I  be  just  at 
last  ?  Will  it  avail  me  ?  Will  it  take  away  my  load  ?  Could 
you  bear  it,  Rufus  ?  poverty — ruin — shame. !  Would  you  ally 
yourself  to  the  daughter  of  Edward  Livingston,  and  still  be 
happy  ?  Or  shall  I  tell  you  the  secret  of  my  life,  that  will 
bring  upon  you  poverty,  and  the  shame  of  a  father's  guilt  1 

"Will  you,  my  best  friend,  asperse  my  father's  character? 
On  the  name  of  Wilton  bring  disgrace  ?"  said  the  young  man, 
with  indignation,  breathing  in  every  feature.  "  What  proof 
have  you  on  which  to  found  so  vile  a  slander  ?  Is  it  not 
enough  that  tlie  law  has  substantiated  his  right  to  possessions 
held  for  five-and-twenty  years?  Shall  friend  as  well  as  foe, 
lacerate  a  child's  pride,  and  filial  feelings,  with  insinuations 
worse  than  statements,  which  can  be  refuted  ?" 

"  Have  you  cause,"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  with  a  whitened  lip, 
"  to  love  your  father,  to  revere  him  as  a  parent  V 

"What  my  father  has  been  to  me  is  irrelevant  to  this  mat- 
ter ;  he  is  my  parent,  his  name  is  my  own,  and  his  honor  is  as 
aear  to  me,  as  his  disgrace  would  be  fatal  to  my  peace." 

Mrs.  Linden  covered  her  eyes  and  wept.  "  Forgive  me^ 
dear  Rufus,  for  wounding  you,"  she  said;  "your  welfare  is 
inexpressibly  dear  to  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  now  how  or  why. 
It  is  enough  that  your  mother's  friends  are  yours.  Go  and  be 
happy  in  the  love  of  your  dear  Cora  ;  God  forbid  that  I  should 
part  you." 

"  Fart  me  from  Cora  !  What  object,  or  what  power  could 
you  have  to  do  this  ?  You  are  indeed  an  enigma  to  me,  and 
though  I  could  not  love  my  mother,  were  she  living,  with  an 
afi'ection  more  holy  and  sincere,  still  I  cannot  allow  unfounded 
rumors  to  undermine  my  faith  in  my  father's  honesty." 

"  Let  the  matter  then  so  rest  ;  may  you  be  happy,  and 
though  wrong  may  be  done  you,  wrong  done  for  you,  in  your 
own  consciousness  of  right,  be  blest." 

"  But,  my  deal  Mrs.  Linden,  I  wish  not  to  be  blinded  on  any 
point.  It  would  afford  me  happiness  to  explain  any  erroneous 
opinions  that  you  may  form,  and  if  any  mysteries,  relating  to 


Lsora's    Child.  325 

my  past  history,  are  in  your  knowlec%e,  anything  relating  to 
my  mother's  destiny,  I  can  only  say,  be  frank  with  me,  if  you 
are  my  friend.  He,  or  she,  who  would  keep  me  in  the  dark- 
ness as  to  any  matter  of  deep  interest,  manifests  no  friendship 
for  me." 

"  Oh,  Rufus,  must  I  lay  bare  to  you  a  dark,  a  sad  tale, 
which  might  afflict  you  for  life  I  Is  it  not  better  that  you 
remain  ignorant  of  facts,  which,  if  unknown,  you  cannot 
mourn.  Or  would  you  prefer  to  have  exposed  to  you,  the  his- 
tory of  a  life  that  will  make  you  recoil,  as  a  man  of  honor, 
from  your  present  position — which  will  cause  you  to  hate  your 
parentage,  your  name,  and  to  abandon  the  soil  on  which  you 
tread  ;  still  more,  dear  Rufus,  which  will  cast  a  stain  upon  her 
who  gave  you  birth  ?" 

Rufus  Wilton  staggered  against  the  wall.  His  face  was 
deadly  pale.  For  some  moments  he  could  not  speak.  His 
eyes  closed,  and  his  white  lips  were  compressed  together — but 
it  was  not  long  ere  the  struggle  passed. 

Coming  towards  his  friend  with  a  firm  step,  and  unflinching 
courage,  he  said,  "  Tell  me  the  worst  that  you  have  to  relate  ; 
let  it  be  for  good  or  for  evil,  1  would  know  the  truth,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned  in  the  relation." 

"  Dear  Rufus,  it  has  nearly  cost  me  my  life,  to  reveal  to  you 
what  will  cause  you  anguish  to  learn.  Mistaken  kindness  has 
kept  a  painful  secret  from  you,  that  you  iniglit  enjoy  a  fatlier's 
ill-gotten  wealth." 

"But  ray  mother  !   what  do  you  know  of  htr  ?" 

"  Ask  your  father,  Rufus.  Fear  him  not.  You  have  a  right 
to  know  her  history.  Ask  him  if  he  heard  no  rustling  in  the 
twilight  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  Ask  him  if  he  turns, 
looks,  and  ponders  yet.  Ask  him  if  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
he  still  listens  for  that  step  that  turned  his  visage  pale,  and  if 
that  faint  shadow,  like  Banquo's  ghost,  sits  still  beside  him, 
when  he  counts  his  gold." 

"  My  dear  friend,  what  grim  terrors  would  you  awaken,  to 
shake  my  faith  in  my  parent's  honor  ?  Let  me  still  believe  that 
some  insane  delusion  separated  my  mother  from  her  infant  boy. 
Let  me  trust  that  bitter  sorrow  for  her  loss  keeps  him  silent  as 
the  grave,  and  that  fear  of  inflicting  pain,  deters  him  from  im- 
parting to  me  her  history." 

"  Oh,  Rufus,  why  were  you  born  to  suffer  with  those  who 
more  deserve  it  ?     But  perhaps  it  were  better  now  than  later  * 


326  Isora's    Child. 

"  It  is  too  late  now  to  offer  me  an  alternative.  Your  words 
will  ever  haunt  ray  brain.  I  will  come  again  and  hear  all  that 
your  knowledge  enables  you  to  truthfully  reveal  ;  but  mark 
me — it  must  be  the  n'^ked  truth — and  may  God  enable  me  to 
hear  it,  and  to  bear  it,  whatever  it  may  be." 

Mrs.  Linden  and  Rufus  Wilton  parted,  after  a  conversation 
of  painful  interest.  Wilton  returned  to  his  lodgings  with  sad 
forebodings,  which  thoughts  of  Cora  could  scarcely  dissipate 
from  his  mind.  Mrs.  Linden  was  to-night  to  him  a  strange, 
mysterious  woman  ;  yet  she  seemed  magically  woven  with  his 
destiny,  and  from  her  lips  he  longed  to  hear  the  story  of  his 
parent's  early  life.  He  little  dreamed  of  its  effect  upon  his  own 
and  Cora's  fate." 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

Go,  speak  not  to  me ;  even  now  begone. 

Shakspearh. 

SINCE  Rufus  Wilton's  last  interview  with  Mrs.  Linden,  his 
mind  had  been  much  harrowed,  with  regard  to  the  subject 
of  her  conversation,  and  more  than  ever  perplexed  with  the 
rumors  respecting  his  mother's  history.  Every  year  that 
passed  over  his  head,  increased  his  displeasure  with  his  father, 
for  keeping  him  in  ignorance  regarding  her  life,  and  flight 
from  her  home.  He  now  determined  to  bring  him  to  an  open 
relation,  or  to  abandon  him  as  unworthy  of  his  respect.  The 
diimer  hour  was  over  at  "  The  Park,"  Uncle  Peter  had  left  the 
house  for  a  visit  at  Captain  Sapp's,  and  the  father  and  son  sat 
together,  each  occupied  with  their  own  thoughts.  The  habi- 
tual reserve  and  taciturnity  of  Mr.  Wilton,  the  elder,  rendered 
him  difficult  of  access  at  any  time,  and  to  break  through  the 
ice  of  his  impenetrability,  on  a  subject  upon  which  he  had  been 
silent  for  the  space  of  five-and-twenty  years,  required  some 
courage  on  the  part  of  his  son.  Bred  with  a  feeling  of  awe  for 
his  stern  parent,  he  had  never,  from  childhood,  enjoyed  an  hour 
of  familiar  intercourse  with  him.  Still  his  purse  had  been  ever 
amply  supplied  ;  he  was  denied  no  privilege,  no  luxury,  which 
he   craved  ;    and   he    had   liberally  received   at   college    and 


IsoK^'s    Child.  327 

abroad,  such  sums  as  furuished  him  every  advantage  for  plea- 
sure aud  improvement.  He  had  sometimes  thought  the 
promptness  with  vvhiph  his  drafts  were  answered,  was  inconsis- 
tent with  the  cold  severity  of  his  father's  manner,  and  his 
accused  parsimony  with  others,  but  while  he  received  the 
required  amounts,  he  questioned  not  the  willingness  of  tlie 
bestowal.  But  the  agitation  of  manner  which  his  father 
evinced,  upon  one  occasion,  Jifter  the  perusal  of  a  letter,  which 
he  then  burned,  and  his  securing  to  him  a  large  estate,  upon 
attaining  his  majority,  harassed  and  puzzled  the  son,  who 
would  have  so  fervently  welcomed  one  gracious  word,  with  the 
liberal  gift.  His  father's  conduct  and  bearing  had  ever  been 
mysterious  to  him,  but,  biased  by  Mrs.  Linden,  he  was  im- 
periled from  a  sense  of  injustice  and  wrong,  to  demand  an 
explanation  of  the  great  enigma  of  his  life.  Rufus  Wilton's 
spirit  and  determination  breathed  in  each  lineament,  as  he 
resolved  to  probe  the  matter  to  its  depth. 

He  held  a  newspaper,  but  its  contents  were  a  blank  page. 
His  thoughts  were  in  the  past.  He 'nerved  himself  to  the 
effort,  and  addressing  his  father,  who  was  writing  at  a  table 
near  him,  he  said  :  "  I  have  long  wished  to  confer  with  you  on 
a  subject,  sir,  which  has  been  one  of  years'  contemplation." 

*'  What  do  you  want  ?"  interposed  his  father,  sternly— 
"  more  money,  young  man  ?" 

"  Not  a  cent,  sir,  I  only  wish  that  you  were  as  liberal  with 
your  confidence,  as  with  your  purse." 

"What  confidence  do  you  want,  boy?  I  made  no  bargain 
for  that,"  he  muttered.  "  If  you  are  not  satisfied,  let  me  know 
your  requirements." 

"  What  you  can  furnish  me  very  easily,"  said  Rufus.  "  I  wish 
to  know  my  mother's  history." 

Mr.  Wilton  started  from  his  chair,  as  if  he  had  been  stung, 
but  listened,  while  his  eyes  stared  upon  the  wall. 

"  And  further,"  continued  the  son,  "  I  wish  to  know  the 
history  of  my  infancy,  and  my  early  childhood,  where,  and 
under  whose  care  I  was  nurtured  ?" 

"  You  are  like  the  rest  of  Adam's  race,  born  of  woman,  and 
full  of  trouble,"  replied  the  father,  sneeringly. 

''  Is  this  all  the  answer  you  have  for  me,  sir  ?" 

**  Go  to  those  who  know,"  replied  his  father,  huskily. 
"  Why  do  you  inquire  ? — you  no  more  need  a  mother  than  I  a 
wife." 


328  I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child. 

"  I  trust,  sir,"  said  Rufus,  "  that  you  see  that  my  inquiries 
are  not  unnatural,  or  impertinent.  Why  should  I  hear  con- 
flicting rumors — intelligence  from  every  source,  but  the  one 
that  can  afford  me  satisfaction  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  can  do  no  more  ;  but  I  can,  at  least  be  silent," 
replied  the  elder  Wilton. 

'*  This  is  worse  than  unkind  in  you  ;  it  is  even  cruel,  to  deny 
me  my  request." 

*'  Boy,"  thundered  the  father,  hoarsely,  ''  shall  I  reveal  a 
history  that  you  would  wish  untold  ?" 

'•'  Let  me  know  upon  whom  that  history  reflects  dishonor," 
said  Rufus,  coldly.  **  I  wish  to  hear,  why  my  mother  in  her 
early  wedded  life,  so  soon  became  an  alien  from  her  home — for 
surely  if  she  could  forsake  her  husband  and  child,  it  was  not 
without  cause,  deep  and  painful." 

The  face  of  Roger  Wilton  betrayed  the  workings  of  a  mind 
deeply  agitated.  The  unexpected  queries  of  his  son,  exaspe- 
rated and  alarmed  him.  He  had  believed  that  the  silence  of 
years  had  for  ever  sealed  a  tale  of  shame  and  sorrow  ;  that 
his  beautiful  young  wife  only  lived  in  his  memory,  and  that 
of  o'fie  other,  who  might  better  know  her  history.  How  should 
he  now  deceive  hei-  child  ?  was  the  query  of  his  mind. 

"  Would  you  know  the  worst  ?"  said  he,  "  ask  Edward 
Livingston,  or  for  ever  keep  silent  regarding  one  whose  errors 
I  would  bury  in  forgetfulness.  Mark  me  further,"  continued 
the  dark-browed  father,  "you  have  opened  a  subject  1  thought 
for  ever  silenced  ;  and  now,  if  you  again  revive  it — hear  me 

— or  by I  will  cast  you   off  as   I  would  shake   a  viper 

from  my  bosom.  I  wish  to  forget  that  you  was  ever  the  son 
of  Rosa  xs^eville.  If  you  wish  to  talk  of  her,  go  to  him,  who 
perhaps,  still  has  her  in  his  " 

"  Your  insinuations  are  false  !  and  I  will  prove  them  sucn. 
Wliat  proofs  have  you,  on  which  to  found  them  ?" 

"  Why  need  you  any,  boy  ?  If  I  had  the  proofs,  I  would 
not  furnish  them.  Did  I  give  rise  to  this  conversation  ?  Have 
I  proclaimed  her  false  ?  Ko.  Go  ask  Edward  Livingston 
why  you  cannot  wed  his  daughter  ;  ask  hinu,  not  me,  where 
she  is,  and  where  she  went  from  the  cradle  of  her  boy  Tso,  ask 
not  her  deserted  husband." 

**  Forgive  me,"  said  the  son,  touched  with  the  tone  in  which 
his  father  spoke,  "  your  words  have  deeply  pained  me — and 
much    more   your   lack    of   candor.     You    speak    of    Colonel 


Isora's    Child.  329 

Livingston  ;  is  there  no  deeper  cause  of  enmity  than  your 
words  reveal  ?     No  secret  that  even  shadows   image  forth  ?" 

''Shadows!"  said  Roger  Wilton,  in  a  sepulchral  tone, 
while  he  staggered  against  the  table,  "  what  do  you  know  of 
shadoios  ? 

"  Gladly  would  I  believe  suspicion  all  a  shadow.  Thus  far 
I  have  deemed  your  claim  to  your  estate  as  just  as  it  is  strong. 
Confirm  me,  I  beg  of  you,  in  this  belief.  Swear,  oh,  swear, 
that  you  hold  it  by  no  fraud." 

"  ]3egone,  son  of  a  hated  mother,  begone  from  ray  presence, 
until  on  your  knees  you  crave  pardon  for  your  vile  suspicion. 
Is  this  my  reward  for  all  the  sums  expended  on  you  since 
your  birth  ?     What  could  she  have  asked  for  more." 

"  Then  she  loved  me,  and  wished  my  welfare.  Oh,  tell  me 
this,"  said  the  son,  eagerly. 

"  For  what  else  did  she  care,  but  for  " 

"  Cease  !  forbear  to  slander  my  pure,  my  angel  mother." 

"  Then  hold — depart — ere  I  wreak  my  vengeance  on  you." 
The  father  and  son  were  equally  excited,  both  erect,  and  not 
unlike  in  appearance  ;  the  deep  furrows  on  the  brow  of  the 
former,  marking  the  most  striking  difference.  In  the  twilight 
the  disparity  in  their  years  was  less  perceptible.  They  had 
come  to  a  fearful  crisis,  and  a  scene  arose  in  the  enraged 
husband's  mind,  that  long  years  had  never  buried.  Dark  on 
his  imagination  came  the  events  of  one  dreadful  night.  Like 
an  incubus  it  had  sat  upon  his  breast  for  five-and-twenty  years, 
and  its  weight  grew  only  heavier,  while  the  hand  of  time 
bore  him  down,  down,  as  guilt  can  only  crush  its  victim. 

In  the  day-time,  in  the  night-time,  in  the  sunlight,  and 
in  the  fitful  gleams  of  the  twilight  hour,  he  ever  heard  a 
rustling,  ever  saw  a  shadow  on  the  wall.  It  seemed  to  haunt 
him,  foretelling  his  doom.  And  often,  as  he  closed  the  shut- 
ters of  his  lordly  mansion,  as  he  laid  down  to  sleep  on  his 
lonely  pillow,  a  beautiful  but  senseless  being  lay  beside  him, 
white  and  cold,  there  dragged  by  the  hand  that  struck  her  ! 

Under  a  heavy  cloud,  the  father  and  son  parted,  while  the 
latter  resolved  soon  to  age  in  seek  Mrs.  Linden,  and  to  hear 
her  tale  of  secresy: 


330  1  S  O  E  a'  S     C  II  I  L  n 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

Melancholy- 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky, 
And  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  through. 

Byron. 

rilHE  night  was  clear  and  beautiful.  The  lambent  light  of  the 
1  stars  fell  upon  the  earth,  throwing  a  soft  gleam  over  Cora's 
ftiir  cheek,  as  sha  sat  with  Wilton  upon  the  balcony  that  opened 
from  the  parlor  of  her  house,  while  she  said, 

"  We  have  had  a  lovely  walk,  Rufus,  and  my  heart  was  never 
so  entirely  at  rest.  Dont  you  think  that  we  are  often  happiest 
when  silent?" 

**  Yes,  Cora,"  said  Rufus;  "complete  joy  is  serene,  calm  in  its 
fullness.  When  you  are  with  me,  as  now,  watching  the  quiet 
stars,  you  seem  to  me  a  part  of  heaven,  and  as  I  look  on  both, 
it  does  not  seem  wrong  to  mingle  my  hopes  of  a  glorious  future 
with  thee.  And  ah!  I  sometimes  fear  that,  happy  as  we  are,  we 
shall  be  separated  on  earth." 

"  Once,  you  were  always  hopeful,  Rufus.  Something  has 
occurred  since  you  went  last  to  New  York."  Cora  raised  her 
blue  eyes  mquiringly  to  the  darker  ones  that  seemed  fixed  in  an 
earnest  gaze  on  her  face,  and  tried  to  read  in  them  all  that 
saddened  and  depressed  her  lover.  "  Are  you  ever  sorry,"  said 
she,  "  that  all  is  at  peace  between  us  ?  Do  you  ever  wish  that 
we  had  never  met  ?" 

"Oh  1  Cora,  that  would  be  a  sad  hour,  indeed.  Should  it  ever 
come,  may  we  be  able  to  bear  it,  darling." 

"  You  affect  me,  sadly,  Rufus,"  said  Cora;  "there  is  nothing 
now  to  cloud  our  happiness,  and  these  days  and  long  evenings, 
when  you  are  with  me,  are  too  blissful  perhaps,  to  last;  but  if 
we  live,  God  will  permit  us  to  enjoy  many  tranquil  ones,  if  not 
as  sweet  as  those  he  gives  us  in  our  youth,  at  least  we  shall 
enjoy  or  suffer  our  lot  together." 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  331 

**  And  you  can  never  doubt  me,  never  spurn  me,  Cora,  even 
though  I  seemed  not  worthy  of  you  ?•' 

"  My  noble  Rufus!"  said  Cora,  while  she  laid  her  hand  con- 
fidingly in  his,  "  Grod  can  only  now  separate  us.  Spurn  you! 
How  you  grieve  me!  I  wish  that  I  could  chase  away  your 
fears.  I  shall  think  that  you  are  growing  weary  of  me,"  she 
continued,  playfully. 

Rufus  replied  by  holding  close  the  little  hand  in  his,  and  said, 
*'  It  is  true  that  I  am  sad  to-night,  but  my  sadness  has  no  touch 
of  romance.  There  is  an  influence  that  depresses  me  more  pow- 
erfully to-night,  than  nature." 

"  What  can  that  be  ?"  said  Cora. 

''  Do  not  ask  me,  Cora.  Let  us  sit  here.  Let  it  be  the 
sweetest  period  of  our  lives,  and  I  will  forget  there  is  a  com- 
ing future.  I  will  have  no  fears,  nor  dim  your  dear  eyes  more. 
Why  should  I,  Cora  ?     God  has  given  you  to  me." 

For  a  while  both  were  silent  as  the  voice  of  nature,  when 
Wilton  aroused  from  his  sad  reverie,  and  proposed  a  walk 
through  the  garden,  though  the  hour  was  late.  A  gentle 
breeze  came  over  the  dewy  lawn,  and  in  the  distance,  through 
the  trees,  the  waters  of  the  Hudson  glittered  in  the  starlight. 
There  was  something  in  the  inexpressible  clearness  and  softness 
of  the  atmosphere,  that  tranquilized  the  senses,  and  beguiled 
Wilton  of  his  sad  forebodings.  His  soul  seemed  to  grow  lighter 
in  tiie  open  air,  and  with  Cora  he  wandered,  long  and  happily. 
A  charmed  and  spell-bound  silence  enchained  their  hearts. 

Cora  longed  to  hear,  as  well  as  feel,  that  the  gloom  of  Wil- 
ton had  passed  away,  and  when  he  spoke  she  almost  held  her 
breath  to  hsten,  as  he  again  cheerfully  conversed. 

Kight  came  on,  and  as  the  moon  arose,  it  shed  its  rays  over 
the  beds  of  flowers,  and  through  the  trees  that  shadowed  them, 
leaving  the  walk  half  in  leafy  shade,  and  the  whole  tinged  with 
a  mysterious,  soft  kaze. 

Cora  felt  the  influetice  produced  by  the  solemnity  and  grandeur 
of  the  midnight  hour;  for  rarely,  if  ever,  had  she  yielded  to 
Wilton's  wish  to  linger  with  her,  until  all  but  the  bat  and  the 
owl  had  slumbered.  An  ineffable  sense  of  the  soul's  sublimity, 
of  its  affinity  to  its  great  Creator,  overwhelmed  her,  as  she  stood 
alone  with  him  beneath  the  starry  canopy  of  night.  Something 
appealed  to  her  feelings,  and  dimly,  but  powerfully,  she  felt  the 
consciousness  that  though  but  an  atom  in  the  great  hea.rt  of 
<'.reation,  her  soul  had  its  origin  in  God. 


332  I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child. 

Suddenly  the  voice  of  Wilton  ceased,  for  he  seemed  airain 
overpowered  by  the  charm  of  the  hour.  The  eyes  of  Cora 
were  often  fixed  in  thoug4  ^  on  the  broad  blue  heavens,  while 
both  seemed  reluctant  to  i-eturn. 

"  Do  you  never  wish,"  said  the  young  girl,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  that  you  could  soar  from  earth,  glide  on  the  moonbeams 
into  the  broad,  starry  heavens,  on  the  wings  of  some  ethereal 
gossamer  thing,  that  was  not  of  this  world,  escape  from  the 
prison-bars  of  mortality,  where  the  spirit  would  be  free,  and 
seek,  in  divine  communion,  to  unravel  the  great  mystery  of  our 
creation  and  existence  ?" 

"My  dear  one,"  said  Wilton,  "at  this  hour,  we  have 
thoughts  that  seem  to  shun  the  glare  of  sunlight.  Oh  !  yes, 
and  is  it  strange  that  this  spark  of  divinity  lighted  in  every 
soul,  should  struggle  to  expand  itself,  and  in  a  purer  atmo- 
sphere of  being,  increase  in  effulgence  until  the  material  is  lost 
in  that  sublimer  essence,  that  seems  born  of  the  great  Eternal  ? 
But  for  love,  the  cement  that  binds  human  hearts,  and  which 
is  the  universal  principle  that  unites  us  with  the  source  of  our 
being,  life  would  be  vapid,  chained  as  we  are  to  a  finite  exis- 
tence. Yes,  dear  Cora,  it  is  a  natural  aspiration  on  the  soul's 
wing  to  seek  its  own  boundless  realm,  and  with  the  spirit's 
eye,  to  peer  into  skies  of  life  and  light,  the  home  of  the 
Immortal.  But  how  limited  is  our  vision  !  While  we  are 
lost  in  the  sense  of  the  beautiful,  while  we  taste  the  essence  of 
the  sublime,  while  we  seem  to  approach  the  infinite,  and  enter 
the  vestibule  of  that  inner  life,  whose  portal  gate  is  mystery, 
even  then  we  shrink  back,  clay-laden,  overpowered  with  the 
chains  of  mortality — making  our  dreams  but  a  part  of  the 
celestial — a  foretaste  of  the  life  that  is  to  come." 

As  Wilton  spoke  on,  warm  hopes  took  possession  of  him, 
and  in  that  moment  he  believed,  that  Cora  would  be  at  last 
united  to  him  for  life,  and,  he  hoped,  for  eternity.  Like  a 
golden  cloud  her  redundant  hair  fell  over  his  arm,  and  as  he 
parted  the  sott  waves  on  her  forehead,  he  vowed  that  she 
siiould  never  be  sacrificed — that,  if  in  honor  and  pride  he 
could  wed  her,  Cora  should  be  his,  but  that  he  would  die  a 
martyr  to  his  love,  before  she  should  dishonor  her  name,  by 
linking  it  to  disgrace,  or  share  with  him  a  life  of  sorrow  and 
bitterness.  But  Cora's  dreams  wore  the  hues  of  the  prism 
in  the  sunlight.  To-night  she  was  supremely  happy.  She  had 
almost  forgotten  the  hour,  and  that  they  must   soon  part. 


Isoka's    Child.  333 

The  following  day  he  was  to  go  to  New  York,  and  Cora  asked 
him  if  he  should  see  Mrs.  Linden. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Wilton,  "did  I  .11  you  that  I  saw  that 
dark-eyed,  beautiful  girl  again,  who  lay  fainting  at  the  time  of 
our  visit  there  ?" 

"  No,  Rufus  ;  tell  me  all  about  her.     Who  is  she  ?'' 

"  I  know  only  that  she  is  a  midnight  star,  but  I  fear  the 
light  of  her  mind  is  dimmed  for  ever." 

"What!  deranged?" 

"Yes,   Cora,   and  who   do   you    think    has    wrecked    her 


reason 


v> 


"  I  know  not.     Pray  tell  me  ?" 

"Mr.  Clarendon." 

"  Oh  !  Rufus,  how — does  she  love  him  ? — and  he  shun 
her  ?" 

"  Yes,  Cora,  I  hear  that  she  has  loved  him  to  insanity,  and 
that  but  for  his  ambition  he  would  have  married  her." 

The  blood  suffused  Cora's  cheek,  and  while  she  clasped  her 
hands  gratefully,  exclaimed,  "  Oh  I  thank  God,  through  me 
she  has  never  suffered.  Poor  girl,  if  he  loves  her,  may  she 
not  yet  be  happy  ?" 

"  While  he  wooes  Cora  Livingston,  do  you  think  that  he 
could  think  of  a  poor  foreign  girl  ?" 

"  Is  she  without  education  or  talent  ?" 

"  No  ;  she  is  gifted  and  possesses  the  charm  of  a-  cultivated 
mind.  But  Mrs.  Linden  tells  me  that  she  has  lived  alone  for 
him,  and  that  she  is  not  fitted  for  his  sphere — and  what  is 
worse  for  her — he  is  of  the  same  opinion." 

"  Oh  I  Rufus,  I  am  glad  that  you  have  told  me  this.  Mr. 
Clarendon  has  faults,  but  beneath  his  worldly  policy,  there  is 
heart  yet  left.     Does  he  know  of  her  derangement  ?" 

"  No — this  will  test  his  love  for  her." 

"  Would  you  marry  me  if  I  lost  my  reason,  Rufus  ?" 

"  Ah  !  Cora.  No  one  else  should  try  to  restore  it,  had  I 
my  will,  and  for  fear  Qu^en  Luna  should  exercise  her  power, 
we  will  now  go  in." 

Quietly  and  slowly  they  entered  the  moonlit  parlor,  and  for 
the  first  time,  Cora  was  afraid  that  her  father  would  hear  her 
entrance — but  all  was  still,  though  she  fancied  that  at  a  win- 
dow she  saw  the  black  eyes  of  Judy  in  her  night-gown.  But 
suddenly  they  disappeared,  and  the  parting  interview  was  not 
disturbed. 


33i  1  s  o  K  a'  s    Child. 

Cora  went  to  her  chamber  in  the  moonlight,  and  her  tears 
dried,  while  she  thought  that  in  tliree  days'  time  she  and  Rufus 
Wilton  would  meet  again. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


Is  there  no  tyranny  but  that 
Of  blood  and  chains? 

Btkon. 


TT7E  must  now  carry  the  reader  back  into  Time's  dark  vista, 
T  T       for  the  period  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  retrace  a 
scene  which  will  throw  some  light  upon  the  history  of  s-ome 
connected  with  our  pages. 

In  tlie  same  old  mansion  where  Edward  Livingston  first  saw 
the  light,  where  his  father  died,  and  where  Rufus  Wilton  was 
left  motherless  in  his  cradle,  sits  at  this  distant  period  a  man 
under  thirty  years  of  age.  His  arms  are  folded  across  his 
chest,  and  his  eyes  fixed  seemingly  on  the  landscape  seen  from 
the  window,  from  which  he  now  looks  forth.  He  seems  in 
moody  thought.  His  dark  hair  curled  about  a  forehead  high 
and  intellectual  in  its  mould,  beneath  which  a  pair  of  black  eyes 
twinkled  with  a  cunning,  sinister  expression.  His  mouth  better 
revealed  the  character  of  his  present  meditation,  which  was 
wreathed  wnth  a  sardonic  smile,  while  occasionally  his  lip  curled 
with  triumph,  mingled  with  contempt.  Decision  and  energy  was 
betrayed  in  his  features  and  bearing,  while  his  thoughts  ran 
thus:  "Crafty  and  hypocritical  I  may  be  deemed,  but  what 
code  is  superior  to  the  law  that  is  founded  on  self-interest? 
Of  what  use  is  that  petty  ambition  that  makes  a  man  a 
slave  to  his  fellow  creatures  ?  What  satisfaction  equals  that 
of  duping  the  trusting  fool,  who  has  not  wit  enough  to 
see  the  hidden  devil.  I  w^as,  it  is  true,  born  a  pauper — dependent, 
and  a  slave  to  a  patron's  will,  and  but  for  the  spirit  that  made 
me  spurn  his  condescending  favors,  I  had  still  been  a  cringing- 
parasite.  But  for  my  work,  Edward  Livingston  would  have 
spurned  the  earth  he  trod.  Bah!  where  is  now  his  Livingston 
|)ride  ?  let  it  feast  upon  his  princely  blood,  while  Roger  Wilton 
holds  his  purse.    Who  but  I  ca  n  loosen  its  silken  strings  ?    Did  he 


Isoba's    Child.  335 

not  from  chilclliood  make  me  feel  the  trampling  of  his  cursei 
foot,  the  overbearing  insolence  tliat  cunning  could  only  match, 
and  is  he  not  now  repaid  for  all  his  proud  assumption  ? 

"  Wiiere  did  he  also  find  his  pretty  bride,  the  haughty  beauty 
whose  JNTeville  blood  he  considered  but  fit  to  mingle  with  a 
Livingston's?  wshe,  the  daughter  of  a  proud  Virginian!  where 
did  he  find  his  beautiful  betrothed  on  his  return  ?  a  cast-away. 
In  the  arms  of  him  he  hated.  But  stealing  his  precious  jewel 
is  the  smallest  of  my  spoils.  He  thought,  at  last,  to  overcome 
the  cunning  of  his  foe.  But  here  he  failed.  The  only  witness 
Jiving,  is  scorching  his  liver  beneath  the  sun  of  India.  It  is  true 
that  his  Rosa  never  loved  me,  but  I  taught  her  to  doubt  the  con- 
stancy of  her  lover,  and  w- ounded  pride  and  desperation  made  her 
mine;  mine,  as  a  cold,  uubreathing  statue  calls  me  husband.  Yet 
she  cannot  leave  me,  for  I  will  keep  her,  rebel  though  she  is." 
Roger  Wilton  carefully  looked  around  him.  It  was  dusk;  the 
cricket  on  the  hearth  sung  its  never-ceasing  tune,  and  without, 
the  hum  of  insects  filled  the  air,  while  the  distant  sound  of  a 
night-bird's  whistle  came  shrill  on  his  ear.  All  else  was  still. 
The  shadows  of  the  tall  trees  fell  darkly  over  the  room,  and 
danced  on  the  carpet  in  the  dim  light  proceeding  from  a  grate 
where  a  fire  burnt  dimly,  for  the  evening  breeze  was  chill,  and  the 
blaze  had  been  lit  for  comfort. 

In  that  flickering,  gloomy  light,  he  slowly  paced  the  room, 
and  while  he  looked  carefully  around  him,  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  roll  of  parchment,  and  as  he  looked  at  it,  thought,  VKo  spot 
is  safe  for  this.  I  cannot  sleep  while  guarding  it;  it  was  made 
to  impoverish  and  disgrace  me.  It  shall  smoke  the  chimneys 
of  th<3  halls  I  love  so  well."  Roger  Wilton  stepped  forward, 
and  laid  it  upon  the  grate.  He  started,  thought  he  heard  a 
noise,  and  for  a  moment  listened;  there  was  a  rustle,  seemingly 
of  silk,  then  all  was  still.  It  was  now  darker,  the  fire  burned 
slowly;  a  shadow  fell  across  the  wall.  Darkness  and  guilt  made 
a  coward  of  him  who  an  hour  since  would  have  dared  the 
conuuittal  of  any  deed.  Hastily  he  fled;  the  fire  burned  with 
scarce  a  gleam,  still  there  the  paper  lay.  In  the  outer  hall  he 
stood  to  listen — courage  returned,  and  he  retraced  his  steps. 
He  looked  upon  the  grate,  the  paper  was  not  there,  but  a  smoke 
as  if  from  ashes,  filled  the  room.  "It  burned  like  chafl",'' he 
muttered;  "I  smell  it  yet.  It  was  quickly  done.  The  rustle 
was  but  the  wind,  the  shadow,  but  my  fears." 

So  Roger  Wilton  consoled  his  momentary  apprehensions,  and 


336  Isoka's    Child. 

left  the  darkened  room,  the  cheerless  grate,  and  the  twilight 
phantoms.  He  turned  his  steps  towards  the  apartment  of  hia 
wife.  "  She  sent  for  me  an  hour  since.  I  will  see  her,  vixen 
though  she  be,"  growled  the  stern  husband  as  he  proceeded  in 
search  of  his  wife.  Opening  the  door  of  a  room  across  the  hall, 
he  stepped  onward  towards  another  opposite,  not  having 
perceived,  w4ien  his  terror  drove  him  from  the  grate,  the  form 
that  had  slid  beneath  the  heavy  folds  of  tapestry,  nor  the  fair 
hand  that  snatched  from  the  embers  the  last  will  and  testament 
of  Robert  Luingston,  while  an  inflammable  paper  of  lighter 
material  was  left  to  burn  instead. 

Carefully  concealing  the  scorched  document,  signed  by  a 
dying  father's  hand,  the  young  and  trembling  wife  hastily 
escaped  through  the  glass  door  behind  the  curtain,  which, 
opening  onto  tiie  colonnade,  afforded  her  speedy  access  to  her 
room.  Mrs.  Wilton,  as  we  now  behold  her,  was  a  woman  of 
superior  attractions,  tall  in  stature,  with  a  form  of  full  and 
voluptuous  proportions.  Her  complexion  w^as  rich,  with  large 
dark  eyes,  and  a  profusion  of  chestnut  hair,  wdiile  her  smile 
was  radiant  and  sweet.  Still  the  fire  in  her  eye  and  her  lofty 
carriage  forbade  any  trespass  upon  her  dignity  or  her  rights. 
She  was  queenly  and  elegant,  though  often  considered  haughty 
by  those  who  knew  nothing  of  the  native  nobleness  of  her 
character.  Her  countenance  now  evinced  much  suffering.  She 
first  hid  the  rescued  will,  and  sat  dowm  in  her  room,  pale  and 
excited.  When  hearing  her  husband's  step,  she  composed 
herself  to  receive  him.  Rosa  Wilton  was  yet  but  nineteen 
years  of  age,  though  from  her  size  and  dignity  she  seemed 
much  older. 

Mr.  Wilton  entered  her  apartment,  and  after  lighting  a 
cigar,  seated  himself,  and  said, 

"  It  is  not  often  that  I  am  thus  honored  by  such  a  summons 
Why  am  I  sent  for  now  ?" 

"  It  is  indeed  strange,"  said  Kosa  Wilton,  coldly,  "  that  a 
wife  should  wish  to  greet  her  husband,  but  it  is  a  matter  of  no 
ordinary  moment  that  compels  me  to  ask  the  civihty.  If  I  am 
young  in  years,  I  am  old  in  feeling,  and  never  in  my  childhood 
lacked  the  spirit  to  defend  myself,  and  thus,  and  for  that  pur- 
pose, I  have  sent  for  you." 

"  You  pause  ;  go  on,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Wilton. 

"  I  have  resolved,  Roger  Wilton,  though  the  bond  of  mar- 
riage unites  us,   to   leave  you  for  ever."     Rosa  Wilton  agaiu 


Isora's    Child.  337 

stopped  ;  emotion  overpowered  her  ;  and  though  not  a  tear 
dropped,  her  form  trembled. 

"  Why  is  this  determination?"  said  Mr.  Wilton,  while  he 
brushed  off  the  ashes  of  his  cigar. 

"  Why  need  you  ask  ?"  said  the  young  wife,  with  her  form 
erect,  and  her  dark  eye  flashing.  "  Have  I  not  byrne  enough  ? 
— indignity  and  insult  heaped  upon  insult,  until  my  heart  has 
nearly  burst  with  outraged  feeling  ? — not  broken^  Roger  Wil- 
ton— that  you  could  never  do.  Had  a  month  elapsed  after  our 
marriage,  before  your  tyrannical  course  commenced  ?  Have  I 
not  been  denied  society  at  home  and  abroad  ?  Have  I  not 
often  been  confined,  even  by  bolts,  from  leaving  these  grounds, 
lest  I  should  make  known  your  treatment  ?  Worse,  have  you 
not  even  struck  me  in  your  anger — deny  it  not — do  I  not  carry 
on  my  arm  the  proof  of  your  violence  because  I  resisted  your 
oppression  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  stop  ? — go  on,  madam,"  said  the  husband, 
coolly. 

"  Yes,  you  shall  hear  all,  though  you  so  calmly  deride  me. 
When  the  hour  came  that  was  to  give  you  a  son  and  heir, 
where  was  then  the  husband  and  father?  Mark  my  words,  a 
day  of  retribution  will  come.  Another  and  a  burning  charge 
I  have  against  you.  To-day  I  have  found  the  letters  which 
Edward  Livingston  wrote  me  while  in  Europe,  and  wdiich  you 
kept  from  me.  Now  I  know  ichy  you  lured  from  me  my  faith- 
ful servant,  who  would  have  delivered  them  to  me.  Ah  !  fool 
that  I  was  to  believe  him  wedded  to  another  !  W^here,  tell 
me,  are  mine  to  him  ? — and  where  is  the  villain  that  you  hired 
to  deliver  them  to  you  ?  Gone,  I  suppose,  with  the  witness  to 
his  father's  will.  W^ell  you  may  turn  pale,  and  eye  me  like  a 
tiger.  I  know  your  secret.  Guard  it  better  than  you  have  the 
happiness  of  your  wife.  For  our  child's  sake  it  is  safe.  Regard 
bis  welfare  and  I  will  not  betray  you.  Be  faithful  to  him  and 
enjoy  your  ill-gotten  estate.  I  will  no  longer  share  it  with  you, 
but  I  cannot  bring  poverty  upon  his  young  head.  Spies  will 
watch  your  course,  and  while  you  are  kind  and  faithful  to  my 
child,  1  will  not  expose  your  fraud." 

'•  What  proof  have  you,  silly  vixen — girl  ?"  replied  the  hus- 
band, "  on  which  to  exercise  your  threats  ?  What  cause  have 
you  to  talk  of  fraud  and  wills  ?" 

"  Will  not  sleep  sometimes  betray  the  guilty  ?  But  you 
need  not  fear  while  yon  guard  with  fidclitv  the  welfare  of  ouv 

15 


338  Isoka's    Child. 

child.  No,  though  twenty  wills  were  stolen,  I  would  keep  a 
father's  disgrace  from  weighing  down  his  early  years,  while  I 
could  screen  him  from  such  humiliation." 

"  Where  have  yow  seen  a  stolen  will  ?"  said  the  dismayed 
husband,  while  he  grasped  the  arm  of  his  wife. 

"  Where  I  found  my  letters.  Locks  are  not  always  safe- 
guards to  vilTainy." 

Roger  Wilton  breathed  freely.  "She  knows  not  of  its 
destruction,"  he  thought. 

He  looked  at  his  proud,  unloving  wife,  and  for  the  first  time 
feared  a  mortal.  "  Could  not  her  tongue,"  he  asked  himself, 
"be  silenced?  Can  she  be  trusted,"  he  murmured  in  spirit, 
"  when  by  exposure  of  ray  wrong  she  enriches  the  man  she 
loves,  though  disgrace,  and  ruin  levels  a  husband  she  hates 
more  fully  ?"  Roger  Wilton  knew  not  the  gashing  tenderness 
of  a  mother  s  heart,  nor  that  when  Rosa  Wilton  resolved  to 
leave  her  husband's  roof  and  desert  her  infant  child,  that  for 
her  boy's  sake  she  could  leave  his  father's  villainy  undis- 
closed. 

For  a  brief  space  neither  wife  nor  husband  spoke.  Roger 
Wilton  reflected  on  his  position.  He  knew  the  spirit  and  reso- 
lution of  the  haughty  girl  that  he  had  married,  while  her  heart 
liad  madly  loved  another.  He  knew  that  treachery  and  false- 
hood had  made  her  his,  and  that  since  the  discovery  of  his  plot 
she  more  than  ever  despised  the  husband  that  had  lured  her 
from  her  betrothed.  He  feared  to  trust  her  within  the  influ- 
ence, or  even  in  approximation  to  her  former  lover.  He  had 
vowed  in  his  heart  that  Edward  Livingston  and  his  wife  should 
never  meet.  He  felt  that  his  own  safety,  as  well  as  her  security, 
depcmded  upon  their  separation,  and  her  threats  of  leaving  him 
he  regarded  as  idle  as  the  whims  of  a  froward  child. 

"So  you  have  found  your  letter,  have  you,"  questioned  the 
husband.  "Are  not  their  love-sick  pages  consoling?  —  or 
would  you  brave  the  laws  of  wedlock,  and  cement  the  old  bond 
between  you  ?" 

A  carnation  hue  passed  over  the  cheek  of  Rosa  Wilton, 
while  she  replied  : 

"  Your  sneers  and  scoffs  will  not  be  long  expended.  No 
power  on  earth  could  make  me  longer  prolong  a  hfe  with 
you." 

"  Supposing  I  am  unwilling  to  part  with  so  amiable  a  pat- 
tern of  her  sex  ?" 


Child.  339 

"  You  can  have  no  object  in  detaining  me.  You  will  not,  I 
suppose,  deny  me,  on  our  separation,  a  portion  of  the  weai^li 
I  brought  you?"  said  Mrs.  Wilton. 

"  You  would  not,  surely,  deprive  me  of  the  charms  that  won 
my  devoted  heart  ?"  answered  Mr.  Wjlton. 

With  eyes  burning  with  contempt  Rosa  Wilton  rose  fronj 
her  chair,  as  siie  replied  : 

*'  Beware,"  said  she,  "  of  further  insult.  All  I  ask  of  you, 
is  my  liberty,  and  my  child.  At  least,  give  him  to  me  until 
his  infancy  has  passed." 

"  You  are  premature,"  said  the  husband,  "  in  your  plans. 
Your  boy  is  in  his  cradle.  I  neither  intend  to  part  with  wife 
or  child.  Calm  yourself — I  have  had  reasons  for  restricting 
your  liberty.  What  society  do  you  need,  beyond  that  of  the 
husband  of  your  choice  ?" 

A  sneer  passed  over  the  face  of  Mr.  Wilton,  as  these  words 
were  uttered.  Mrs.  Wilton  did  not  reply,  but  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands,  while  lier  husband  continued  : 

'*  You  may  think  of  abandoning  me,  but  you  cannot — at 
least,  to-night." 

As  Mr.  Wilton  spoke,  he  rose  and  left  the  apartment,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  turned  the  key  of  the  door,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  The  blood  of  the  proud  woman  boiled  with  insulted 
feeling.  She  covered  her  eyes  and  wept  passionately  ;  then, 
approaching  the  cradle  of  her  boy,  knelt  by  his  side,  and  there 
vowed  to  win  him  from  his  heartless  parent,  and  to  teach  him 
to  despise  the  name  he  bore.  After  the  absence  of  an  hour, 
Mr.  Wilton  returned  to  his  wife.  She  was  weeping,  with  her 
infant  in  her  arms.  Seemingly  disregarding  him,  she  frantic- 
ally caressed  her  child. 

"  Can  I  give  you  up  ?"  she  murmured  in  a  choking  voice. 

"  Rosa,"  said  the  husband,  "  that  sacrifice  will  not  be  neces- 
sary, for  you  shall  never  leave  me." 

"  You  have  annulled  the  ties  between  us,"  replied  Mrs. 
vVilton.  "  You  cannot  prevent  me  from  seeking  another  home 
than  yours  ;  and  if  God  permits,  I  shall  yet  again  see  my 
child.  Yes,  my  boy  shall  learn  to  love  the  mother,  who  will 
never  sink  a  victim  to  a  husband's  tyranny." 

"  A  victim,  Rosa  ! — we  are  but  even.  Your  motives  in 
marrying  me,  certainly  could  not  demand  too  much  from 
love  r 

"Ask  not  my  motives   for   ilic  act.     Oh!   where   was  my 


340  Isora'sChild. 

reason,  when  1  believed  your  tales  of  falsehood  ?  Desperation, 
nauglit  else,  won  my  consent." 

"  Well,  then,  desperation  shall  retain  you." 

Mrs.  Wilton  laid  her  sleeping  child  upon  its  pillow,  and 
walked  the  room  with  rapid  strides  ;  then,  approaching  her 
husband,  said,  with  softened  feeling  : 

"  There  is  one  tie  yet  unites  us — this  darling  child.  For  his 
sake,  oh,  what  would  I  not  suffer  !  But  it  would  be  ten  thou- 
sand deaths  to  linger  with  you  ;  and  yet,  for  him,  I  might  suf- 
fer on." 

"  Have  you  more  to  say,  Rosa  ?  Your  words  can  no  more 
harm  me — they  have  even  ceased  to  wound,"  replied  the  hus- 
band, whose  tones  derided  more  than  their  purport.  "  Say 
on." 

"  What  have  I  more  to  say  ?  There  have  been  days  when 
kindness  would  have  soothed  me — days  since  we  were  wedded 
— when  my  vows  would  have  risen  up  in  judgment  ;  but  it  is 
DOW  too  late  for  me  to  retract.  I  shall  leave  with  you  our 
boy,  knowing  that  I  have  a  pledge  for  his  security  from  harm, 
I  shall  have  him  also  watcHed,  and  while  I  have  assurance  that 
you  are  faithful  to  him,  I  will  be  as  secret  as  the  grave." 

"  jS^o  more  of  this  !"  said  the  enraged  husband.  *'  I  defy 
you  to  approach  the  threshold  of  these  outer  doors.  Will  you 
provoke  me  to  anger — to  violence  ?" 

"  Violence  would  only  make  me  more  rebellious.  I  never 
saw  the  man  whose  subject  I  would  be,  much  less  a  cringing 
slave." 

"  Your  volcanic  bursts  increase,  I  think  of  late,  but  by 

if  you  will  not  listen  to  reason,  I  will  terrify  you  into  submis- 
sion." 

As  Mr.  Wilton  spoke,  he  opened  a  door  that  led  down  a 
pair  of  winding-stairs  to  an  unfrequented  part  of  the  building. 
Tiiis  space  or  court  was  under  ground,  and  had  been  formerly 
used  as  a  wine-cellar,  and  for  the  period  of  thirty  years  had 
been  left  to  the  rats,  and  such  refuse  articles  as  had  been 
consigned  to  the  tomb  of  forgotten  things.  The  door  that 
led  to  it  was  never  opened,  and  Rosa  Wilton  started  when, 
for  the  first  time,  she  saw  it  swing  upon  its  hinges.  Her 
husband  stood  for  the  moment  at  the  entrance  of  the  doorway, 
then  dragging  his  wife  forcibly  with  him,  pointed  down- 
wards. 

'/  Do   yon    see    that  cellar    below,"    he   muttered    fiercely 


Isora's    Child.  341 

"  You  profess  to  know  ray  secret  doings.  If  you  breathe  a 
syllable  of  your  suspicions,  I  will  keep  you  there^  for  ever,  from 
my  sight,  and  also  from  your  child's.  I  can  easily  proclaim 
your  absence.  Remember  that  you  are  in  my  power,  instead 
of  I  in  yours.  Tell  me,  was  it  you  that  caused  that  rustling, 
the  shadoiv  on  the  wall  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  answer  your  questions.  You  may  confine  my 
body,  my  mind  you  cannot  chain,"  said  Rosa  Wilton,  between 
rage  and  fear.  "This  is  no  country  for  dark  deeds  Yikt  this. 
But  what  may  I  not  expect  of  you.  Oh  !  my  God,  that  this 
breast  should  learn  to  hatey 

"Rosa,"  said  the  pale  husband,  "there  are  conditions  from 
which  you  are  safe  from  violence,  or  confinement.  Bury  in  your 
heart  your  vile  suspicions,  and  be  contented  with  the  lot  that 
you  have  chosen.  Can  I  trust  you  in  a  conference  with 
Edward  Livingston  ?  Would  you  not  lead  him  to  suspect 
wrong  of  even  your  own  wedded  husband  ?  How  can  I  either, 
be  sure  that  even  your  marriage  vows  would  keep  you  from  a 
revival  of  your  love  ?  I  know  that  the  spirit  of  a  devil  led 
you  to  marry  me,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  annul  those  vows." 

"  I  will  hear  no  more,"  said  Rosa  Wilton,  standing  back 
erect. 

"Promise  me,  Rosa,"  said  Mr.  Wilton,  "never  to  reveal 
your  suspicious,  or  I  will  not  permit  you  henceforth  to  see  your 
child." 

"  I  will  part  from  you,  and  yet  will  see  him." 

Rosa  Wilton  struggled  with  desperation  to  return  to  her 
own  room,  but  on  the  dark  stairway  her  husband  held  her 
fast,  while  he  exclaimed  in  low  but  stern  tones, 

"  Promise  me,  or  I  will  dash  you  down  the  staircase.'^ 

"  Villain,"  cried  the  frantic  wife,  "  you  may  kill  me 
first" 

While  she  spoke,  a  blow  from  her  husband  sent  her  reejjng 
against  the  stairway.  She  did  not  fall,  butgwas  stunned,  and 
fainted.  Roger  Wilton  became  alarmed,  and  feared  that  he 
had  killed  his  wife.  Hastily  carrying  her  through  the  hall, 
into  her  chamber,  he  laid  her  upon  her  bed.  It  was  now  the 
hour  of  twelve.  The  servants  were  asleep,  and  fearing  no 
intrusion,  he  applied  restoratives,  and  staunched  the  wound 
which  she  had  received.  Finally,  opening  her  eyes,  Mrs. 
Wilton  groaned,  and  called  for  her  boy. 

The  husband's  joy  at  his  wife's  recovery  overcame  his  I3ga 


342  Isoka's    Child. 

"  Rosa,-'  said  he,  "  You  exasperated  me  to  this  violence 
Promise  all  the  silence  1  reqnire,  and  you  shall  have  a  kind, 
devoted  husband.  Let  me  learn  to  trust  you.  I  must  not 
fear  a  woman." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  might  not  keep  a  promise  made  for  svch  a 
bribe.  But  to  this,  I  will  agree.  While  you  screen  my  boy 
from  harm,  while  he  has  tender,  devoted  care,  I  will  never  say 
that  pn  the  burning  coals  you  were  seen  to  lay  a  will.  No, 
though  you  defrauded  me  of  a  noble  husband,  and  bound  me 
to  a  tyrant  ;  thus,  I  will  be  bribed  to  silence,  in  my  absence 
from  you." 

"  Rosa,  I  will  never  permit  3^ou  to  go." 

The  beautiful  but  suffering  woman  lay  still  upon  her  bed. 
Her  head  was  bound  with  linen,  while  around  it  lay  its  rich 
brown  folded  hair.     Passion  still  worked  in  every  feature. 

Her  head  was  thrown  back,  exposing  her  full  chest,  now 
heaving  with  agitation.  The  softness  of  girlhood  had  departed 
from  her  lineaments  ;  but  the  eloquent  woman,  struggling 
with  feeling,  there  breathed.  The  wife  was  silent,  but  her  eye, 
brow,  and  lip,  spoke  the  determination  of  her  spirit. 

Mr.  Wilton  sat  by  her  side,  watching  her  for  an  hour,  then, 
being  sure  that  he  had  uiflicted  no  mortal  injury,  he  laid  himself 
upon  a  lounge,  near  her,  to  sleep.  The  key  of  the  door  was 
in  his  pocket.  He  felt  to  see  if  it  was  safe,  and  then  turned 
on  the  side  upon  which  it  rested.  At  early  dawn  he  rose 
and  left  the  room,  where  he  had  passed  the  night,  and  sought 
the  servants,  telling  them  that  their  mistress  was  ill,  and  he 
feared,  delirious.  He  further  said,  that  she  had  wandered  in 
the  night,  and  injured  herself.  He  enjoined  perfect  quiet,  and 
informed  them,  that  he  would  nurse  her  alone. 

After  removing  the  child,  the  husband  then  resumed  his 
post.  Mr.  Wilton's  directions  were  imperative,  and  no  one 
in  his  service  dared  question  him,  or  his  motives,  but  silent 
murmurs  went  through  the  house,  respecting  the  strange 
orders  received  within.  During  this  illness,  no  one  was 
admitted  to  the  presence  of  his  wife,  excepting  Susy  Burke, 
who,  in  her  old  age,  went  by  the  name  of  "  Goody."  To  her, 
even,  the  injured  woman  was  represented  as  deranged,  and 
and  strict  silence  urged  as  a  means  of  her  recovery. 

For  a  week,  Mr.  Wilton  thus  watched  his  wife,  while  he 
daily  coaxed  and  threatened  her  to  become  reconciled,  and  to 
live  submissive  to  \n^  requirements,  which  were,  seclusion  in 


Isora's    Child.  343 

tils  home,  without  communion  with  others,  excepting-  such 
society  as  he  might  seek  for  her  enjoyment,  while  she  vowed 
eternal  secresy  to  his  doings.  This  she  refused,  but  feigned 
such  apathy,  and  indifference  to  her  existence,  that  the  fears 
of  her  husband  partially  subsided. 

His  plan  was  to  sell  his  property  and  take  her  to  Europe, 
where  he  need  not  fear  her  tongue.  Rosa  Wilton  was  young 
and  beautiful,  and  but  for  her  acknowledged  hatred  to  her 
husband,  she  would  have  exercised  over  him  a  sway  that  no 
woman  ever  had.  A  gentle,  passive  being  had  no  fascination 
for  Roger  Wilton  ;  but  there  was  that  in  the  character  of 
her  he  married,  much  that  inspired  and  aroused  his  deep 
but  malignant  nature.  In  his  milder  moods,  her  companion- 
ship pleased  him,  and  at  times  she  exercised  over  his  mind  and 
senses  a  magical  inliuence.  He  did  not  wish  to  part  with  her, 
for  many  reasons,  though  his  attachment  could  hardly  bear 
the  appellation  of  love.  Her  present  gloomy  state  of  mind 
suited  his  tale  of  her  derangement.  He  kept  her  secluded 
from  all  visitors,  assigning  her  state  of  health  as  a  sufficient 
cause  for  her  retirement.  His  attention  to  a  hitherto  neglected 
wife,  was  noticed,  and  many  believed  that  a  change  had  come 
over  the  heart  of  the  stern,  cold  husband. 

Susy  Burke  became,  meanwhile,  her  confidant,  and  with 
cunning  and  fidelity  she  played  her  part. 

Feigning  submission  to  Mr,  Wilton,  whom  she  had  learned 
to  hate,  she  thus  more  effectually  served  her  mistress.  In  the 
presence  of  her  husband  Mrs.  Wilton  preserved  silence  to 
lier  nurse,  and  he  believed  it  habitual,  and  that  she  had  actu- 
ally sunk  into  a  state  of  mental  insensibility,  and  he  sometimes 
thought  that  she  had  become  imbecile  in  consequence  of  his 
violence. 

And  it  was  true  that  she  had  never  recovered  from  it,  but 
its  physical  effects  had  heen  dissipated — still  like  fire  it  burned 
within,  never  to  be  effaced,  and  she  now  believed  never  to  be 
forgiven.  She  daily  reeled  under  the  influence  of  that  blow, 
and  she  never  saw  him  but  her  spirit  rose  in  rebellious  wrath, 
and  her  veins  thrilled  with  feelings  akin  to  hatred. 

But  in  her  husband's  presence  Rosa  Wilton  evinced  no 
emotion.  She  would  hold  her  child  for  hours,  looking  at  it 
with  intense  love,  apparently  having  for  no  other  living  object 
thought  or  care.  She  daily  pondered  on  the  course  best  to  be 
pursued  with  the  rescued  will.     Her  next  thought  was  for  the 


344  I  s  o  R  a'  s    Child. 

child  she  had  resolved  to  abandon.  She  had  secretly  met  her 
old  lover,  and  promised  as  her  atonement  for  her  faithlessness 
to  him,  to  for  ever  quit  the  husband  that  she  had  learned  to 
hate.  His  disclosed  villainy  had  since  then  confirmed  her  in 
her  determination. 

Thrilling  and  painful  had  been  the  only  meeting  of  Kosa 
Wilton  and  Edward  Livingston.  It  was  a  dark  but  starry 
night,  when  beneath  the  ruins  of  an  old  building  they  had 
stood,  and  with  feelings  of  remorse  and  anguish  on  one  side, 
and  bitterness  and  contempt  on  the  other,  revealed  their 
feelings. 

"If  I  vow  to  go,  to  leave  my  home,  my  child,  and  him  I 
loathe,"  said  Rosa  Wilton,  "  will  you  then  believe  me  innocent 
of  wrong  in  heart  towards  you  ?  Edward/'  she  continued,  "  I 
have  dearly  paid  for  my  credulity,  but  I  offer  you  atonement." 

"  Atonement,  Kosa,  you  cannot  offer  me,"  said  Edward 
Livingston,  now  in  the  pride  and  beauty  of  early  manhood. 
"  No,  you  are  his,  not  j)ii7ie,  but  go  from  him,  and  I  forgive 
you  ;  leave  him  for  ever,  and  I  will  forget,  not  hate  you/' 

"  And  leave  my  child  !  Oh,  Edward  !"'  The  young  wife  of 
"Roger  Wilton  fell  humbled  at  the  feet  of  him  she  still  adored. 

In  pride  and  triumph  Edward  Livingston  raised,  and  looked 
upon  the  girl  he  had  once  vowed  to  wed,  and  found  another's 
bride  ;  and  he  turned  from  her  while  he  said  : 

"  Do  you  ask  me  to  bid  you  cherish  his  child  ?  No,  Rosa, 
though  you  love  it,  with  a  mothers  love,  for  7ne,  from  whom 
you  have  torn  my  life,  make  even  the  sacrifice  I  ask.  Can  I 
crave  deeper  revenge  ?" 

"Did  I  not  hate  hi7n,  Edward,  I  could  not  do  even  this  for 
you,  so  precious  is  my  boy  ;  but  since  I  have  learned  his 
treachery,  and  that  he  lied  to  win  me  from  you,  I  despise  him. 
And  now  have  you  no  kind  word  for  Rosa,  Edward,  before 
we  for  ever  part  ?" 

"  How  can  I,"  said  the  once  fond  lover,  "  trust  my  tongue 
to  utter  words  I  scorn  to  breathe  to  the  wife  of  another  ? 
Ah,  Rosa,  it  were  too  easy  to  believe  you  guiltless,  and  to  love 
you  still  ;  but  while  my  veins  thrill,  and  my  pulse  quickens 
with  your  presence,  I  feel  that  thou  art  his.  But  Rosa," 
Edward  Livingston  now  approached  the  woman  whom  he  had 
just  spurned  with  bitterness,  "  go,  leave  your  home,  and  I  will 
forgive  you  all.  Take  this  purse,  Rosa,  you  will  need  it — it  is 
not  much  to  thank  me  for." 


I  s  o  ii  A '  s    Child.  3^5 

"  Edward,"  said  the  weeping  wife  of  Roger  Wilton,  "I  will, 
— and  know  that  she  who  wanders  forth  in  this  wide  world 
without  home  or  shelter,  who  will  pine  in  sorrow  for  her  chihl, 
will  look  upon  you  as  the  instigator,  as  the  one  who  aided  her 

in  her  flight.     Better  to  take  this  than  to  live  on but 

no  matter,  I  bid  you  now  farewell  T 

"I  accept  the  atonement  you  offer  me,  Rosa,  for  all  the 
wrong  you've  done  me,  and  we  part  no  longer  foes.  Give  me 
your  hand  ;  and  now  by  the  sacred  vows  that  once  made  it 
almost  mine,  I  bid  you  go — then  I  am  not  wholly  unavenged." 

The  soft  fair  fingers  were  released  with  a  pressure  to  his 
lips,  and  the  groan  of  anguish  that  issued  from  the  lovers,  told 
of  the  agony  of  that  long  adieu.  Thus -Rosa  Wilton  and 
Edward  Livingston  parted,  in  their  youth.  Long  years  had 
passed  before  they  met  again. 

Weeks  had  flown  since  that  secret,  stolen  interview  ;  and 
during  this  interval  Rosa  Wilton  had  discovered  the  double, 
criminal  treachery  of  her  husband,  which  strengthened  her  in 
her  determination  to  leave  him.  For  sometime  she  had 
watched  her  opportunity  to  escape  his  vigilance  ;  and  while 
secretly  eyeing  his  movements  she  observed  the  caution  with 
which  he  contemplated  the  destruction  of  the  paper  which 
he  held,  and  was  urged  by  curiosity  to  detect  his  aim,  and,  if 
possible,  to  save  the  document  which  he  would  destroy,  if 
artifice  could  do  it.  The  heavy  folds  of  drapery  proved  a 
covert  for  her  person,  and  while  her  husband  fearfully  fled 
from  fear  of  the  rustling  she  produced,  she  saved  the  will 
whose  loss  her  old  lover  had  mourned.  The  sad,  young 
mother  now  knew  that  she  had  the  ability  to  rule  her  husband 
in  her  absence  ;  and,  for  her  child's  sake,  she  resolved  to  keep 
it,  that  she  might  secure  her  little  deserted  one  both  luxury 
and  kindness.  Thus,  in  after  years,  when  Rufus  Wilton 
reached  the  age  of  one-and-twenty  he  came  in  possession 
of  an  estate  w^hich  made  him  independent  of  his  father. 

Gradually  Mrs.  Wilton  seemed  to  recover  her  spirits.  She 
even  kindly  received  her  husband,  and  manifested  no  wish  to 
leave  the  premises  of  her  home,  while  each  moment  she  spent 
in  planning  her  escape.  At  last  her  husband  became  less 
solicitous  respecting  her  movements,  and  as  she  seemed  con- 
tented, and  finally  appeared  hap})y  and  submissive  to  his 
wishes,  he  was  careless  in  his  vigilance  of  her  security.  His 
wife  obseiived,  with  satisfaction,  the  change  produced  by  hei 

15* 


346  Isora's    Child. 

rusie,  and  resolved  to  seek  the  first  opportnnitv  afforded  her  to 
leave  for  ever  the  roof  of  her  detested,  and  she  believed  criminal 
husband. 

A  beautiful  summer  day  had  passed  while  she  pursued  her 
avocations,  and  devoted  herself  with  tearful  tenderness  to  her 
child.  Her  husband  had  returned  from  New  York,  fatigued, 
and  expressed  the  intention  of  retiring  early  to  bed.  He  asl\ed 
her  for  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  which  she  prepared,  add- 
ing to  the  potation  a  few  grains  of  morphine.  He  drank  it, 
and  an  hour  afterwards  slept  quietly.  With  confidence  in  the 
drug,  and  in  the  deep  sleep  of  her  husband,  with  a  stealthy  step 
she  sought  for  the  key,  which  he  usually  took  from  the  lock  when 
he  retired.  She  feared  that  she  should  awaken  him,  as  she 
knew  that  it  lay  beneath  his  pillow,  and  that  his  slumber  was 
often  restless  and  wakeful  ;  but  with  gentle  caution  she  slipped 
her  fingers  beneath  the  head  of  the  sleeper,  and  drew  the  key 
from  its  hiding-place. 

Rosa  Wilton  then  approached  the  cradle  of  her  boy  ;  he 
was  sleeping  in  cherub  beauty.  With  an  agonized  look,  she 
clipped  from  his  brow  one  soft  curl,  and  slid  noiselessly  towards 
the  door.  As  she  did  so,  she  caught  a  view  of  herself  in  the 
glass  ;  she  saw  that  her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  by  the  light 
of  the  night-lamp,  it  seemed  shadowy  and  spirit-like.  With 
sup'^rstitious  and  real  terror,  she  placed  the  key  in  the  door- 
lock.  The  noise  started  her  husband  from  his  sleep — he  rose 
in  his  bed  and  muttered  "  Rosa,"  but  sank  down  heavily. 
Through  the  opened  door,  she  fled  first  to  Susy's  room,  telling 
Uer,  while  on  her  knees  she  sank,  never  to  forsake  her  boy. 
^usy  promised  fidelity,  and  bade  her  quickly  flee.  Then  over 
the  lawn  the  wife  and  mother  fled,  and  before  the  morning  had 
dawned,  she  was  alone  in  the  heart  of  a  crowded  city.  She 
soon  arrayed  herself  in  the  deepest  weeds,  and  with  the  ample 
purse  furnished  her  by  Edward  Livingston,  she  was  enabled 
to  find  a  quiet  home. 

At  the  hour  of  ten,  the  forsaken  husband  awoke.  With  lifted 
hands.  Susy  Burke  stood  by  his  bed-side,  crying  in  terror,  that 
on  rising,  she  had  found  her  mistress's  door  unlocked,  and  on 
entering  tiie  room,  that  she  had  gone,  and  the  child  was  cry- 
ing in  its  cot. 

"Gone  !"  thundered  Mr.  Wilton,  "My  God  !  where?  pur 
sue  her  before  it  is  too  late." 

With  precipitation,  Mr.  Wilton  procured  horses,  and  flew 


Isora's    Child.  347 

towards  the  landing  ;  be  found  that  the  boat  in  which  his  wife 
had  probably  fled,  bad  left  several  hours  previous,  and  in  des- 
pair be  turned  tOAvards  bis  home.  He  was,  he  found,  at  last 
baffled  and  deserted  by  a  wife  who  shared  with  bim  a  secret, 
that  if  revealed,  would  lead  him  into  the  depths  of  ruin.  "  But 
tiiank  Heaven,"  he  muttered,  "  while  her  boy  lives,  I  am  safe." 

Roger  Wilton  felt  keenly  the  loss  of  his  wife,  though  bis 
pride  was  most  deeply  wounded,  and  rage  overcame  him,  when 
the  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  that  through  Edward  Living- 
ston's influence,  she  had  been,  perhaps,  induced  to  abandon 
him.  Yet  ho  had  no  proof  on  which  to  found  his  jealousy,  and 
he  dared  not,  as  he  was  situated,  investigate  the  matter.  We 
have  now,  but  a  word  more  of  Rosa  Wilton  ;  but  once  she 
succeeded  in  seeing  her  infant  boy  ;  her  visit  was  sus- 
pected, and  efi'orts  were  made  to  entrap  her,  but  in  vain. 
Roger  Wilton  had  lost  his  young  wife,  and  she  who  bad  fled 
from  mingled  feelings  of  hatred,  scorn,  and  love  for  another, 
was  scarcely  less  miserable  than  her  guilty  husband. 

Through  long  succeeding  years  she  mourned  for  the  child 
she  bad  deserted,  while  self-reproach  added  poignancy  to  her 
grief ;  her  conscience  told  her  that  she  bad  deeply  erred,  and 
tliatfrom  wounded  pride,  and  violent  impulse,  she  bad  plunged 
herself  in  misery,  and  left  motherless  her  only  child.  Rosa 
Wilton  felt  that  her  punishment  was  partly  merited,  and  that 
while  she  scorned  to  share  the  stqiJen  property  of  another,  she 
deeply  sinned  while  concealing  the  wrong.  But  what  other 
atonement  had  she  to  offer  her  child  ?  By  her  sin  she  bought 
for  him  tenderness  and  wealth  ;  for  if  the  first  came  not  from 
parental  care,  she  knew  that  the  rich  were  never  denied  the 
smiles,  for  which  the  poor  might  sigh  in  vain. 

Such  was  the  sophistry  and  consolation  of  the  wandering 
Rosa,  while  the  scenes  of  her  early  life,  and  the  great  step 
which  left  her  afloat  upon  an  uncertain  tide,  wretched  in  heart 
and  prospects,  powerfully  affected  the  destiny  of  others. 

Thus,  my  reader,  have  we  travelled  with  you  into  the  past, 
far  back  from  the  period  of  our  tale,  while  the  fate  of  Rosa 
Wilton  remains  yet  untold.  From  the  hour  she  rested  in 
her  youthful  beauty  beside  the  tyrannical  being  from  whom 
she  fled,  listening  in  her  once  elegant  home  to  the  breathings  of 
her  infant  boy,  he  has  not  seen,  or  beard  of  her  wanderings  cr 
destiny.  He  is  now  a  man  of  four  and  fifty  years — grey  hairs 
Rre  profusely  mingled  with  bis  still  curling  locks,  and  many 


348  Isora's    Child. 

furrows  are  engraven  on  his  cheek  and  brow.  The  deserted 
child  frora  whose  fleecy  locks  the  frantic  mother  stole  one  baby 
curl,  is  now  a  man.  At  the  period  of  our  tale,  he  stands  in 
the  same  room  where  she  left  him  sleeping  that  beautiful  sum- 
mer night.  Twenty-four  years  had  fled,  and  in  view  of  the 
same  old  trees,  the  same  blue  waters,  the  same  lofty  ceiling 
beneath  which  his  young  mother  whispered  to  him  her  fond 
adieu,  he  stood  in  the  vigor  of  manhood  to  learn  from  the 
husband  and  father  the  history  of  her  youth. 


CHAPTER    XXIY 


A  wretched  soul,  bruised  with  adversity, 
We  bid  be  quiet,  when  we  hear  it  cry  ; 
But  were  we  burdened  with  like  weight  of  pain. 
As  much  or  more  we  should  ourselves  complain. 

Shakspeake. 

I)UFUS  Wilton  proceeded  the  following  morning  to  ^''ew 
i  York,  and  at  evening  sought  the  home  of  Mrs.  Linden. 
She  was  paler  than  when  he  last  saw  her,  but  seemed  calm  and 
collected,  and  more  than  usually  affectionate.  Rufus'  first 
inquiry  was  for  Flora.  Mrs.  Linden  became  agitated  at  the 
query,  and  said  that  she  had  not  been  entirely  rational  since  he 
saw  her,  but  that  she  was  peaceful  and  harmless.  Her  mind 
seem  to  dwell  upon  her  marriage,  which  she  thought  was  near 
at  hand. 

Her  wedding-dress  she  talked  much  of,  and  spent  the  most 
of  her  time  in  making  and  wreathing  garlands.  Mrs,  Linden 
wept  as  she  spoke,  and  reproached  herself  for  the  loss  of  Flora's 
reason.  While  she  was  talking  to  Wilton,  Flora  came  into 
the  room  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  a  beautiful  wreath  of  white 
flowers,  which  she  put  upon  her  head,  and  as  she  approached 
a  mirror,  she  whispered,  "  He  is  waiting  ! — hark  !"  Then  turn- 
ing her  head,  she  saw  Rufus  looking  sadly  at  her. 

**  Have  you  come,"  said  she.  "  Do  I  look  like  a  bride  ?  Louis 
likes  white,  so  it's  no  matter  if  it  is  a  ghostly  color,"  As  Flora 
continued  in  her  incoherent  way  her  wild  talk,  Wilton,  for  the 


Isora's    Child.  349 

first  time,  attentively  observed  her,  and  was  struck  with  the 
'soft,  G^entle  grace  that  characterized  her  movements. 

"  Tell  rae  something-  of  her  history,"  said  he  to  Mrs.  Linden, 
as  Flora  left  the  room 

"  I  know  little  of  it,  Kufus,"  said  the  lady.  "  The  first  time 
I  saw  her  was  at  the  death-bed  of  her  mother.  I  was  a  neigh- 
bor of  Mrs.  Islington,  as  she  was  called  ;  and  hearing  that  she 
was  very  low,  perhaps  near  her  end,  I  went  into  her  sick  room, 
and  witnessed  a  scene  which  I  can  never  forget.  There  also 
stood  Mr.  Clarendon  in  his  youth  ;  why  he  came  there  then,  I 
did  not  know,  but  I  heard  him  promise  that  young,  dying 
mother  to  protect  her  child.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  solemnity 
of  his  words  as  she  pointed  to  her  darling,  then  a  child  of  ten 
years  of  age,  and  said,  "  Who  will  take  care  of  her  ?"  "  I  will,'- 
said  the  young  man.  How  I  then  revered  him  !  and  more, 
when  in  reply  to  her  faintly  uttered  expression  of  gratitude  as 
she  gave  her  to  him,  he  replied,  **  I  will  keep  the  tnist .'" 

"What  did  he  do  with  her,"  said  Wilton,  eagerly. 

"  He  made  an  idol  of  her  ;  he  petted  her  in  childhood  ;  and 
after  educating  her,  took  her  to  his  home,  and  worshiped  her 
as  a  goddess." 

"  But  not  as  the  woman  he  would  marry  ?" 

"  ±so,  Rufus.  I  had  never  forgotten  the  little  orphan  girl,  and 
on  hearing  Mr.  Clarendon's  wish  for  a  governess  for  his  ward, 
I  sought  the  place,  to  be  near  his  lovely  charge.  Each  day  she 
grew  more  fascinating,  more  beguiling  in  her  youthful  charms, 
and  each  hour  he  became  more  enslaved  with  his  favorite.  I 
believe  he  loved  her,  as  he  never  has,  or  will  another  woman." 

"  And  yet  he  scorned  her  as  his  wife  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  this  I  knew  ;  for  I  was  in  possession  of  the  tale 
attached  to  her  birth.  In  her  illness,  the  sad  secret  of  the 
mother  had  been  revealed  to  my  ears,  and  I,  as  well  as  Claren- 
don, believed  that  Flora  was  illegitimate,  and  that  by  a  false 
marriage  was  her  poor  mother  betrayed,  and  then  deserted. 
This  secret,  which  Flora  heard  accidentally  whispered  some 
months  since  by  one  of  the  old  neighbors  of  her  mother,  in 
iiddition  to  her  yearning  for  her  guardian,  lias,  I  fear,  destroyed 
her  reason." 

"  But  how  came  she  here  with  you  ?" 

"  Oh  !  Rufus,  I  lured  her  away  from  her  beautiful  home — 
her  adoring  lover — and  have  endeavored  to  teach  her  that  w"s- 
dom  which  I  only  learned  in  later  e  ars — the  wisdom  that  is 


350  Isora's    Child. 

not  of  this  world.  I  sought  to  shelter  the  lamb  that  I  stole 
from  the  fold  of  him  who  had  placed  it  in  an  earthly  paradise, 
that  it  might  enter  spotless  the  bosom  of  the  Great  Shepherd 
und  be  one  of  Christ's  flock.  With  the  heavy  load  of  sin  that  I 
myself  bore,  I  was  yet  an  iustrament  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord 
to  do  good,  and  poor  Flora  became  a  true  and  humble  Christian 
under  my  teachings  and  care.  Tenderly  I  have  guarded  her,  and 
but  for  an  accident  she  would  never  have  known  the  story  of 
her  birth.  But  I  do  not  consider  her  incurable.  With  the 
return  of  perfect  health,  I  believe  that  her  reason  would  dawn, 
and  her  clear,  bright  intellect  again  bless  her  friends.  But,  oh  ! 
Rufus,  I  have  not  the  means  to  bestow  for  this  end,  and  unless 
he  from  whom  I  took  her  will  provide  her  an  asylum,  I  know 
not  what  will  become  of  her,  for,  henceforth,  I  am  again  a 
wanderer." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  Oh  1  if  you  are  to  desert  us  for 
a  long  period,  first  open  your  heart  to  me,  and  tell  me  all  the 
mystery  that  has  clouded  our  intercourse.  I  mmt  know  it 
before  I  marry  Cora  Livingston." 

"  Tills  is  well,  Rufus,  and  I  have  long  sinned  in  keeping  it 
from  you,  for  the  heavier  now  will  come  the  grejit  trial  of  your 
life.  Yet  it  has  been  for  you  that  I  have  committed  this  great 
wrong,  and  for  you  now  I  suffer." 

Mrs,  Linden's  head  now  fell  on  her  hands,  and  low  sobs  came 
from  her  breast.  Rufus  Wilton  was  much  puzzled  with  her 
agitation.  He  took  her  hand,  and  begged  her  to  explain  it, 
saying  that  surely,  after  their  last  conversation,  he  had  a 
right  to  expect  it. 

As  Wilton  spoke,  Mrs.  Linden  pressed  her  high,  pale  fore- 
head with  a  movement  of  anguish  ;  while  she,  whom  our  read- 
ers have  long  since  recognized  as  Rosa  Wilton,  murmured  : 

"  Oh  !  my  God  !  thou  hast  granted  my  prayer  ;  thou  hast 
olessed  me  with  the  love  of  my  only  child,  my  little  deserted 
one,  and  he  loves  me  as  his  mother."  After  a  long  pause, 
during  w^hich  she  grew  momentarily  paler,  Mrs.  Linden,  as  we 
must  still  call  her,  rose  and  opened  a  desk  containing  her  pri- 
vate papers.  She  passed  rapidly  over  letters  of  recent  date, 
and  not  until  her  hand  fell  upon  a  package  bearing  the 
hue  and  stamp  of  time,  did  she  discontinue  her  search. 

She  examined  it  externally,  and  then,  from  a  small  partition, 
drew  forth  a  scorched  document.  A  part  of  the  paper  seemed 
burned,  and  the  envelope  was  half  consumed.      She  had  pre- 


Isora's    Child.  351 

served  it  thus  for  long  years.  But  Kosa  Wilton  felt  tliat 
she  could  not  longer  live  with  this  weight  of  sin  on  her  con- 
science, such  as  her  unrevealed  secret  occasioned  her.  It 
became  a  burden,  causing  daily  anguish  and  niglitly  terror,  and 
the  character  of  her  son  led  her  to  believe  that,  bitter  as  would 
be  the  trial,  he  would  rather  know  the  fraud  by  which  he  was 
enriched,  than  to  live  as  she  had  done  from  childhood,  on 
the  property  belonging  to  another. 

She  saw  him  about  to  marry  the  daughter  of  one  whom  his 
father  had  defrauded,  and  whose  wealth  he  was  about  to  lavish 
upon  his  bride — every  dollar  of  which,  she  knew  belonged 
to  her  parent.  Yet  Rosa  Wilton  also  knew  that  she  could  not 
die  as  she  had  lived,  conniving  at  the  guilt  of  another.  The 
conflict,  which  for  years  had  harrowed  her  soul,  had  now 
reached  a  crisis.  She  had  spent  nours  by  herself  in  the  strug- 
gle to  do  justice  to  Edward  Livingston,  which  at  the  same 
time  would  disgrace  and  impoverish  the  son  of  her  youth,  by 
the  revelation  of  his  father's  crime.  By  its  concealment, 
she  had  endeavored,  in  her  mistaken  kindness,  to  atone  to  her 
son  for  her  desertion  of  him  when  an  infant,  and  to  Edward 
Livingston  she  had  paid  the  penalty  of  her  faithlessness,  by 
a  life  of  suffering  and  lonely  sorrow.  In  these  struggles  with 
her  heart  and  conscience,  had  Rosa  Wilton  thought  of  the  hour 
of  retribution  awaiting  her  guilty  husband?  No — it  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  affliction  that  must  come  upon  the  head 
of  her  only  child  ;  for  in  the  hour  that  she  restored  to  him  the 
mother  who  had  been  the  dream  of  his  boyhood,  and  the 
mysterious  vision  of  his  manhood,  she  must  crush  his  heart 
with  anguish. 

With  the  burned  paper  iu  her  hand,  the  pale  mother  again 
sat  down  by  her  son, 

*' Can  you,  Rufus,"  said  she,  with  a  voice  trembling  with 
emotion,  "  bear  poverty,  pain,  and  more,  sustain  yourself 
beneath  a  father's  disgraced  and  perjured  name  ?" 

"  I  have  come  here  to-day,"  said  the  son,  calmly,  "  to  endure 
all  that  you  may  inliict,  and  afterwards  to  judge." 

"Oh  !  Rufus,  can  you  think  that  I  would  willingly  bring 
sorrow  upon  your  head  ?" 

The  tone  of  gushing  affection  in  this  ejaculation  from  the  low 
voice  of  the  speaker,  the  fervor  and  eloquence  in  the  pale  face 
of  the  mother  who  vspoke,  awoke  an  inborn  sympathy  in  the 
Boii.     He  impulsively  caught  the  hand  that  trembled  on  Ir.is 


352  Isoea's    Child. 

knee,  and  raised  it  reverently  to  bis  lips,  while  he  said  :  "I 
believe  that  you  are  sincere  and  good,  and  I  bid  you  go  on  and 
tell  me  all  that  you  have  to  relate." 

"Know  then,"  said  she,  ''that  since  you  were  an  infant, 
I  have  hid  from  the  world,  and  from  Edward  Livingston,  the 
will  that  entitles  him  to  the  estate,  so  long  held  by  your  father." 

Every  vestige  of  color  fled  from  the  face  of  the  listener,  but 
he  said  : 

"  How  came  you  by  it  ?" 

"  I  rescued  it  from  the  embers,  to  which  your  father  con- 
signed it?" 

"  And  he  is  a  villain  !"  said  the  son  in  a  low,  husky  tone, 
"  and  I,  his  son,  have  shared  his  stolen  estate — subsisted  on  the 
wealth  of  Edward  Livingston,  while  he  and  his  child  have  suf- 
fered from  poverty  !  Oh  !  my  God,  why  hast  thou  permitted 
this  !  And  you,  madam,  why  have  you  preserved  this  dread- 
ful secret  ?  Why  have  you  thus  disgraced  the  innocent  sou 
with  the  guilty  parent  ?" 

As  Rufus  Wilton  spoke,  his  eyes  glowed  with  burning  indig- 
nation, and  his  frame  trembled  with  the  power  of  his  emotion. 

"  Do  not — oh,  do  not  reproach  me  !"  said  the  suffering 
woman.  "  Here  is  the  will,  by  its  destruction  you  can  avoid 
this  disgrace  ;  you  can  still  live  on,  with  the  fraud  unexposed." 

"Mrs.  Linden,"  said  the  son,  with  increased  feeling  ;  "will 
you  insult  me  by  the  supposition  that  I  could  live  a  day,  ah, 
an  hour  without  a  revelation  of  this  villainy  ?  Do  you  think  that 
for  wealth,  for  even  a  father's  honor,  I  could  make  myself  a 
scoundrel  ?" 

"  And  I  for  long  years  have  done  this  guilty  thing  !'' 

"  For  what  purpose  ?  and  for  who7n  ?" 

"  Oh,  ask  me  not — I  am  unworthy  of  the  child  for  whom  I 
have  suffered." 

With  one  long  gaze  of  anguish  and  affection,  Rufus  Wilton 
clasped  the  hands  of  the  woe-stricken  mother,  then,  as  he  fell 
upon  his  knees,  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  trembling  voice  : 

"Do  I  behold  7ny  mother  ?" 

"  Oh,  Rufus  !  will  you  own  me  in  this  hour  ?" 

"Forgive  me — oh,  forgive  me,  my  blessed  mother!"  said  the 
son  in  a  choking  voice.  "  You  have  erred,  but  it  is  not  for 
me  to  say  it.  You  have  at  last  done  well,  and  saved  your  sou 
from  a  life  of  dishonor.  But,  oh  !  why  have  you  so  long  been 
a  stranger  to  your  home  and  your  child  ?" 


Isoka's    Child.  353 

The  sou  was  now  beside  his  weeping  parent.  He  held  still 
the  hands  that  grew  cold  and  pallid  in  his  own,  while  she 
answered  : 

"  That  home  was  one  of  tyranny,  and  even  for  my  darling 
child  I  could  not  brook  oppression.  From  your  father  I  had 
suffered  treachery,  and  when  I  learned  that  to  this  he  had 
added  villainy,  I  fled." 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  not  take  me  with  you  ?"  said  the  son, 
with  a  lip  white  as  his  mother's. 

"  To  save  you  poverty  ;  to  save  you  an  honored  name.'^ 

"  And  for  me  you  have  suffered  even  the  pangs  of  a  guilty 
conscience  ;  oh  !  my  mother,  mistaken  has  been  thy  love  ! 
Thou  hast  sinned  against  thy  God,  and  bitter  must  be  thy 
repentance  !  Why  did  you  not  compel  me  to  a  life  of  labor  ? 
oh  !  better  it  had  been  thau  this  hour  of  shame  1" 

Rufus  Wilton's  head  was  bowed  in  humble  sorrow,  while  he 
still  clasped  tenderly  the  hand  of  her  whom  he  reproached. 

"  What  shall  we. now  do  ?"  said  the  suffering  parent. 

"  Ah  !  yes  ;  that  is  the  question — What  shall  we  now  do  ? 
This  then  is  the  vnllT'  Rufus  glanced  at  it,  and  with  a 
ghastly  face  observed  the  burned  edges  of  the  document  ;  then 
rising  from  his  seat,  into  which  he  had  sunk,  he  walked  the 
room,  while  he  held  it  firmly.  "  We  cannot,*'  said  he,  "  deliver 
this  up  to-night,  but  to-morrow  it  must  rest  in  the  hands  of  its 
owner." 

"  And  where,''  said  the  mother,  "  will  Roger  Wilton  then 
rest  ?" 

"  Stop  !"  said  the  son  with  excitement.  "  He  must  first  be 
bid  to  flee.  But  /  cannot  do  this.  You  must  do  it.  You, 
who  rescued  the  will  from  him,  must  proclaim  to  him  his  doom." 

"  I  submit  ;  on  me,  rests  this  duty,"  said  the  mother,  in  a 
firmer  voice.  "  When  shall  this  be  ?  Not  until  into  the 
guardian's  hands  I  return  his  ward  ;  wait  for  this  ;  for  the 
same  hour,  I  must  too  escape.  Let  me  not  face,  under  these 
circumstances,  my  poor,  defrauded  Edward." 

A  bright  flush  came  across  the  cheek  of  the  son,  as  the 
mother  thoughtlessly  revealed  her  enduring  affection  for  Colo- 
nel Livingston.  "  What  does  this  solicitude  mean  ?"  said 
Rufus,     "  Why  cannot  you  meet  the  legal  heir  ?" 

**  There  is  that  in  the  past,  my  dear  son,  that  makes  it  pain, 
ful.  I  know  not  that  we  even  should  recognize  each  other — 
for  four  and  twenty  years  we  have  not  met." 


354  Tsora's    Child. 

A  smile  of  gratitude  and  love  came  over  the  features  of  the 
son,  to  pass  away  in  a  look  of  deep  dejection. 

**  I  ask  not  now,  the  history  of  your  early  years,  dearest 
mother,"  said  Wilton,  "  another  time  is  best  fitted  for  that  rela- 
tion— the  business  of  the  present  absorbs  all  else  ;  I  cannot 
leave  you  to-night,  for  our  plans  must  be  arranged  between 
this  and  morning.  First  you  must  dispose  of  poor  Flora,  and 
then,  with  me,  you  must  seek  my  father." 

As  Rufus  Wilton  ceased,  for  the  first  time  he  shed  tears. 
With  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  he  wept  in  bitter  anguish. 
His  mother  came  beside  him,  and  like  a  statue  of  cold  despair, 
looked  on  his  misery. 

"  Have  you  not  fortitude  for  this,  my  son  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  know  not  ;  I  am  but  human,  and  when  I  resign  this  will, 
I  give  up  what  is  dearer  than  aught  else,  save  the  honor  of  my 
name." 

"  What,  my  boy  ?" 

''AH  that  makes  life  dear, — my  Cora,  my  life,  ray  pride, — 
she  who  was  to  me  my  guiding  star,  my  hope,  my  all." 

"  Why  must  this  sacrifice  be  made  ?  Will  she  not  cling  to  you 
in  sorrow  ?" 

"  In  shame  !"  replied  Rufus  Wilton  in  a  tone  of  deepest  woe, 
"this  I  cannot  ask  of  Cora  Livingston  ;  ah,  well  do  I  remem- 
ber her  father's  taunting  words  in  alluding  to  the  name  of  Wil- 
ton ;  but  I  deemed  it  then,  as  free  from  stain  as  his  ;  I  thought 
I  offered  a  spotless  one  to  Cora." 

"  And  yours  is  untarnished  still,  my  son." 

"  Do  you  deem  that  I  could  claim  the  hand  of  her,  whom  I, 
though  innocently,  had  aided  in  defrauding  ? — on  whose  pro- 
perty I  had  lived  from  childhood — and  as  the  son  of  one  who 
fled  from  justice,  convicted  of  a  crime  so  base,  hold  her  pledged 
to  fulfill  her  vow  ? — No,  Cora,  I  resign  thee  !" 

"  But  will  she  give  you  up  ?" 

"  My  poor,  loving  Cora,  I  will  not  give  her  the  question  to 
decide  ;  is  she  not  a  Livingston  ?  and  do  you  think  that  I 
could  ask  her  to  ally  herself  to  ignominy  ?" 

"  Is  she  not  a  woman,  Rufus,  and  think  you  that  she  will 
scorn  you  for  restoring  to  her  father  his  own,  at  so  terrible  a 
sacrifice." 

"  I  see  myself  but  in  one  light  ;  a  defrauder  of  her  rights, 
and  the  debtor  of  her  father.  What  have  I  to  offer  her  ? — not 
even  an  honorable  name  ;  while  she  is  rich  and  proud  in  her 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  355 

exalted  station,  from  wliich  poverty  never  huinl)led  her  ;  can  I, 
a  miserable  beg'gar,  live  on  her  father's  bounty,  share  the 
wealth,  as  but  a  pensioner  of  the  proud  man,  who,  but  for  his 
daughter's  love,  had  spurned  me  like  a  dog  ? — No  I  will  cut  off 
tliis  hand  before  I  link  it  to  his  child's,  even  though  we  both 
die  martyrs  to  this  resolution." 

"  Oh,  my  son,  you  know  not  the  sacrifice  you  make — the 
sorrow  that  such  a  resolution  would  cause  her." 

"  My  poor  Cora,"  said  tlie  suffering  Wilton,  "  how  sweet  was 
our  last  meeting  ;  how  filled  my  heart  was  with  sad  forebod- 
ings !  Yes,  she  may  cling  to  me  through  poverty  and  through 
shame,  but  I  love  her  too  well  to  cloud  her  destiny  with  mine. 
Ah,  think  of  a  world's  scorn  !  Can  I  ever  face  their  sneers — 
their  condemnation  of  my  father's  crime  !  Why,  oh,  my 
mother,  did  you  not  take  me  with  you,  even  though  I  died  in 
poverty  !" 

"  I  could  not — oh,  I  could  not.  You  were  his  as  well  as 
mine." 

Through  a  night  of  anguish,  Rufus  Wilton  and  his  mother 
talked  of  the  duty  of  the  coming  day,  and  when  the  morning 
dawned,  they  parted  as  if  in  anticipation  of  a  scaff"old.  Their 
faces  were  haggard,  and  their  eyes  red  and  swollen  with  tears. 
With  a  firm  grasp,  Wilton  took  the  long-hidden  will  and  pro- 
ceeded towards  his  lodgings. 

In  all  his  suffering,  lie  had  but  one  consolation.  He  had 
found  his  long  lost  mother,  and  she  was  one  whom,  for  years, 
he  had  loved.  He  sought  his  private  room,  where  he  sunk  in 
such  despair  as  the  heart  seldom  in  this  life  feels.  Yet  it  was 
not  that  of  guilt,  for  his  conscience  proclaimed  him  innocent, 
and  for  the  crime  of  another,  he  bewailed  in  the  depths  of  his 
grief. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Mrs.  Linden,  who  had  for  ever  dropped 
the  name  of  Wilton,  sought  the  room  of  Flora.  And,  oh  ! 
Buch  a  change  as  she  there  met.  The  beauty  and  radiance  of 
hope  kindled  in  the  eye,  and  on  the  lovely  cheek  of  the  insane 
girl.  And  so  sweet  and  tranquil  was  the  wandering  of  her 
mind,  that  but  the  glance  of  affection  could  have  detected  the 
loss  of  her  reason.  She  was  arrayed,  that  sad  morning,  os  a 
bride.  A  white  dress  floated  in  airy  grace  about  her  person, 
and  a  long  veil  fell  from  her  head  of  jet  black  hair,  while 
across  her  brow  lay  a  string  of  pearls.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  she  had  dressed  herself  with  taste,  and  with  her  tiny 


356  I  s  o  li  A '  s    Child. 

foot,  was  stepping  forth  from  her  chamber,  to  meet  her  bride- 
groom. When  Mrs.  Linden  met  her,  sJie  smiled  with  such 
bewitching  sweetness,  that  she  kissed  her,  and  addressed  her 
twice,  before  she  could  realize  that  poor  Flora  was  not  herself. 
Then,  coaxing  her  to  wait  until  the  hour  for  the  ceremony,  she 
lured  the  poor  girl  back  to  her  room,  and  after  calling  her 
maid  to  her  assistance,  left  her  hastily,  and  proceeded  to  the 
home  of  Mr.  Clarendon.  She  knew  not  what  would  be  her 
reception,  but  she  felt  that  this  was  her  only  alternative,  to 
apply  in  the  extremity  to  the  old  guardian  of  Flora.  What 
could  she  now  bring  him  back  ?  not,  alas  !  his  bewitching 
ward,  for  only  the  beautiful  tenement  was  left.  She  had  wan- 
dered into  that  land  of  dreams,  to  which  some  are  borne  on 
wrings  of  love,  to  taste,  seemingly,  of  bliss,  while  others  are 
dragged  down  by  chains  of  misery,  to  hopeless  sorrow.  Flora's 
derangement  was  of  the  most  harmless,  but  not  less  melan- 
choly kind.  Mrs.  Linden  felt  that  she  had  a  painful  task,  to 
communicate  the  sad  tidings  of  her  lunacy  to  Mr.  Clarendon  ; 
for  she  believed,  that  if  ever  he  loved  a  being  on  earth,  he  had 
given  his  heart  to  Flora  Islington.  And  that  his  life  was 
embittered  by  the  yearning  he  ever  felt  for  the  guileless  love 
that  had,  for  a  period,  so  sweetened  his  existence.  She  had 
not  falsely  prophesied  in  this  ;  for  in  the  depths  of  a  worldly 
heart,  deeply  but  surely  buried  poor  Flora  lay  enshrined,  and 
however  the  courtier  might  seem  to  love,  whatever  worship  he 
might  pay  to  the  fashionable  and  gay,  in  the  lonely  hours,  of 
Louis  Clarendon,  his  sweet  loving  Flora,  with  her  dark,  spiri- 
tual eyes,  was  before  him  ;  and  in  his  w^aking  and  sleeping 
dreams,  he  clasped  her  to  his  heart  as  his  own.  Since  the 
acknowledged  engagement  of  Cora,  he  had  been  more  in 
society  ;  but  was  becoming  disgusted  with  the  frivolity  and 
heartlessness  which  he  so  frequently  encountered.  His  hopes 
of  obtaining  Cora  Livingston  for  a  wife,  seemed  now  frail, 
since  her  father  had  sanctioned  the  addresses  of  her  lover,  and 
he  resigned  her  as  a  cold,  ungrateful  girl.  In  contrast  to  the 
icy  Cora,  and  the  gay  coquettes  with  whom  he  had  amused  his 
leisure  hours.  Flora  came  back  on  his  memory,  in  her  youth- 
ful beauty,  her  heart  burning  with  passionate  love  for  him. 
Oh  !  how  he  wished  her  parentage  was  pure  and  spotless  ! — 
that  before  the  world  she  had  shone  a  star,  and  that  she  could 
adorn  his  home,  as  well  as  command  his  love,  as  his  bride. 
But  no,  he  felt  Flora  could  only  live  for  him — that  she  would 


Isora's    Child.  357 

shrink  from  bis  guests,  and,  like  a  timid  bird,  fly  from  the 
gayest  circles,  only  to  find  her  home  in  his  arms.  Still  he 
loved  her,  and  at  times  bitterly  repented  that  he  had  educated 
her  alone  for  himself  ;  for  though  he  could  not  deceive  himself, 
yet  might  he  not  others,  in  the  story  of  her  birth. 

As  he  left  the  abode  of  Madame  Delano  one  evening, 
wearied  with  her  jealous  caprices,  he  came  home,  and  seated 
himself  on  the  old  sofa,  now  always  associated  with  Flora. 
He  sought  the  little  envelope,  containing  her  hair,  and  taking 
the  curl  from  its  folds,  kissed  it,  as  a  part  of  his  lost  idol,  and 
resolved  that  she  should  yet  be  his  ;  and  though  against  all 
his  preconceived  opinions,  he  argued  himself  into  the  belief, 
that,  after  all,  his  notions  of  a  woman  of  the  world  being  the 
most  suited  to  his  position  in  life,  that  his  happiness  was  not 
as  well  secured,  as  by  the  devotion  of  one  who  lived  only  for 
himself.  Such  was  the  late  sophistry  of  Mr.  Clarendon,  and 
the  more  he  thought  of  Flora,  the  more  he  loved  his  lost 
darling.  He  contrasted  her  with  Cora,  and  though  the  purity 
and  beauty  of  the  latter  was  a  sweet  vision  to  his  mind,  her 
remembrance  brought  no  thrill  of  passionate  emotion  to  his 
soul.  She  was  not  his  warm,  loving  Flora.  Through  the 
night,  he  pondered  on  his  dream  of  making  her  his  wife. 
With  this  aim,  he  felt  that  he  could  win  her,  and  restore  her 
to  her  own  former  self. 

When  morning  came,  he  thought  of  Flora,  as  she  had  sat 
at  his  breakfast  table,  in  her  girlish  beauty  ;  and  how  she  had, 
to  the  sacrifice  of  all  etiquette,  amused  and  enchanted  him  ; 
and  he  resolved,  as  he  drank  his  last  bachelor  cup,  that  if  he 
met  the  derision  of  the  fashionable  world,  he  would  offer  his 
heart  and  hand  to  Flora  Islington.  He  had  smoked  his  last 
cigar,  and  dreamed  such  a  dream  as  only  a  bachelor  ever 
pictured,  under  the  ambrosial  fumes  of  the  magnetic  weed,  and 
scouted  at  the  world,  and  their  opinions,  as  of  not  a  farthing's 
value,  compared  with  his  own,  and  those  of  his  darling. 
Flora. 

At  this  happy  moment,  Benson,  the  housekeeper,  announced 
to  Mr.  Clarendon  that  a  lady  wished  to  speak  with  him  in  the 
parlor.  The  intelligence  startled  him,  especially  as  Benson 
looked  mysteriously  wise. 

He  rose  from  his  bamboo  lounging  chair,  and  sought  his 
visitor  with  some  curiosity  and  annoyance,  for  she  had  disturbed 
a  delicious  reverie.     But  when  he  met  Mrs.  Linden,  who  came 


358  Isora's    Child. 

forward  to  greet  liira,  he  started  back  in  amazement,  with 
inexpressible  emotions  ;  for  he  knew  that  she  had  come  with 
some  intelligence  of  Flora.  He  had  ever  hated  her  since  she 
lured  away  his  protege,  and  though  in  his  heart  he  thanked  her 
for  her  protection  of  the  orphan  girl,  he  could  never  forgive 
her  for  depriving  him  of  her  society.  He  looked  upon  her  as 
an  ogress  in  a  fair  form,  who  guarded  and  hid  from  him  his 
treasure.  But  the  penetrating,  sad  look,  that  met  his  own  as 
he  accosted  her,  now  disarmed  him  of  his  resentment,  and  he 
civilly  inquired  for  her  health,  as  she  sunk,  overpowered  by  her 
feelings,  upon  a  sofa,  while  he  awaited  the  declaration  of  her 
errand. 

After  a  pause,  she  spoke.  "  I  have  come,"  said  she  in  a 
voice  of  deep  sorrow,  "  on  an  errand  of  a  painful  nature — to 
give  you  back  your  ward." 

"  To  give  me  back  my  Flora  !"  said  Mr.  Clarendon  earnestly. 
"  Why  have  you  come  to  this  decision  ?  Is  it  her  wish  ?"  he 
continued  in  an  excited  tone. 

"  She  is  passive  now,  Mr.  Clarendon.  But  I  am  going  away, 
and  she  needs  an  asylum." 

"  One  has  been  always  ready  for  her  here,"  said  Mr. 
Clarendon  with  an  accent  of  deep  feeling  ;  "  but  I  am 
surprised  that  you  have  so  lost  your  discretion,  as  to  trust  her 
with  me.  Proy  how  have  I  altered  in  your  estimation  as  to 
become  a  proper  guardian  for  a  young  girl,  who  is  certainly  no 
less  attractive  than  of  old  ?     Am  I  more  or  less  an  anchorite  ?" 

"  Mr.  Clarendon,"  said  Mrs.  Linden  in  a  tone  of  anguish. 
"1  do  not  return  her  to  you  as  I  took  her  from  you  V 

"  How  has  she  changed  ?  Tell  me  ! — for  the  love  of  God 
what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  Is  she  ill  ?  Speak — 1  beg  of 
you  ?"  Mr.  Clarendon  came  nearer  Mrs.  Linden,  and  ai  xiously 
awaited  her  reply. 

*'  Not  in  body — but  in  mind,  our  poor  Flora  is  ^' 

Mr.  Clarendon  caught  the  arm  of  Mrs,  Linden  and  held 
it  as  in  a  vice,  while  he  muttered.  "  Do  you  tell  me  she  is 
insane  ?" 

"  I  fear  so — yes — partly  so." 

"  Wretch  !  Begone  !  You  are  the  cause  of  this  !  And 
you  have  come  to  give  her  back  to  me  !  Generous  woman  ! 
My  Flora  !  and  without  her  reason  !  Tell  me  how  it  has 
happened  ?  It  is  naught  but  fanaticism — you  have  crazed  her 
— tirst  by  stealing  her  from  the  home  she  loved,  and  then  by 


Isora's    Guild.  350 

your  canting  preaching.     Yes — give  her  back  to  me,  and  let 
me  save  her  before  it  is  too  late." 

"  And  have  you  no  compunction,  Mr.  Clarendon,  none  for 
winning  her  young  heart,  and  then  leaving  it  to  wither.  Do 
you  think  this  had  no  effect  upon  her  delicately  organized 
brain  ?  She  was  a  harp  too  finely  strung  for  ruthless  treat- 
ment." 

"  Did  I  ever  treat  her  harshly,  Mrs.  Linden  ?" 

"  No,  too  tenderly,  if  you  did  not  wish  to  marry  her." 

"  I  understand  you,  but  I  meant  no  harm  to  Flora.  God 
knows  I  loved  her,  and  that  I  love  her  still !  Did  she  ever 
grieve  for  me  ?" 

"  Yes — till  it  has  crazed  her  brain,  and  beguiled  her  of  her 
reason.  Still  God  has  dealt  gently  with  her.  Ophelia  w^as 
never  sweeter  in  her  madness,  and  she  seems  happy  now. 
When  I  left  her,  she  was  arrayed  in  white  ;  she  thought  herself 
your  bride." 

Mr.  Clarendon  became  pale  and  agitated,  and  his  voice 
trembled  as  he  said  :  '*  You  have  come  to-day  for  your  revenge, 
and  you  have  had  it  in  its  fullest  sense.  Bring  her  back,  and 
no  power  on  earth  shall  separate  us  again." 

"  But  Mr.  Clarendon,  is  this  best  ?  She  loves  you  too  well 
to  meet  you  yet." 

A  change  came  over  the  features  of  Mr.  Clarendon.  lie 
had  received  a  shock  which  overpowered  him. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  will  to-day  send 
a  physician  to  her.  I  have  no  wish  to  see  her,  I  begin  to 
realize  her  case.  Excuse  me — there  must  be  no  delay.  Poor 
Flora  !  Have  her  in  readiness  at  twelve  o'clock."  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon hastily  left  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Linden,  and  sought 
retirement  in  his  library,  where  but  an  hour  since  he  had 
resolved  to  seek  and  marry  the  poor  girl  whom  now  he  did  not 
dare  to  meet.  How  bitterly  he  wished  that  he  could  recall  the 
past  ;  how  void  seemed  now  the  world  of  pleasure,  since  he 
despaired  of  ever  winning  Flora  !  How  beautiful,  how  sweet, 
her  memory  seemed  to  him  in  comparison  with  every  other  ! 
And  had  he  put  out  this  light  of  his  darkened  existence  ?  Ten 
thousand  daggers  pierced  his  soul  at  the  overwhelming  thought 
that  she,  so  dear,  so  valued,  was  for  ever  lost  to  him. 

At  noon  of  the  same  day  a  carriage  came  to  the  door  of 
Mrs.  Linden,  and  Flora  was  borne  away — she  deemed,  to  her 
bridal. 


360  Isoea's    Child. 

An  hour  after,  Rufus  Wilton  went  to  confer  with  his  mother 
on  the  course  which  he  had  resolved  to  pursue  regarding  the 
will.  He  was  calm,  but  haggard  and  pale.  His  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  and  years  seemed  to  have  been  added  to  his  exist- 
ence in  a  night.  His  plan  was  first  to  seek  his  father,  with 
Mrs.  Linden,  and  then  to  acquaint  him  with  his  knowledge  of 
his  crime,  while  his  mother  furnished  the  proof  of  his  guilt. 

Rufus  waited  long  for  the  wife  to  prepare  herself  to  meet  her 
husband.  And  such  a  meeting,  and  for  sucli  a  purpose,  it  was 
not  strange  that  there  should  be  delay  !  She  at  length  came 
from  her  dressing-room  in  her  deep  black  attire,  while  a  veil  of 
double  crape  concealed  her  face.  It  was  her  usual  dress  in 
public  ;  and  the  son  did  not  marvel  at  it.  Her  tall,  proud 
form  was  erect,  and  her  features  composed.  So  she  went  forth, 
on  the  arm  of  her  child,  to  do  justice  at  last  to  the  injured,  to 
the  sacrifice  of  her  husband,  and  the  sorrow  and  humiliation  of 
her  only  son.  She  manifested  no  emotion  on  the  journey,  but 
silently  observed  the  scenery,  while  Rufus  watched  her  coun- 
tenance with  intense  and  painful  interest. 

When  they  had  reached  their  destination,  and  were  within 
view  of  *'  The  Park,"  she  dropped  more  closely  her  veil,  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  avenue  towards  the  old  home  from  which 
she  had  fled  in  her  youth,  pausing  only  where  the  boughs 
seemed  to  interlace  over  her  head.  This  had  once  been  her 
favorite  spot.  The  odor  of  shrub  and  tree  came  over  her 
senses  ;  over  hill  and  dale,  mountain  and  stream,  her  eyes 
wandered,  as  if  in  one  glance  she  could  recall  the  past.  They 
then  proceeded  slowly  up  the  steps  of  the  piazza.  Both  were 
silent,  and  wholly  absorbed  by  painful  feeling.  They  reached 
the  well-known  colonnade  where  Rosa  Wilton  had  so  often  sat; 
then  through  the  hall,  and  into  the  dark,  old  oaken  parlor  ; 
here  remained  the  same  old  furniture,  the  same  pictures,  and 
heavy  damask  that  had  graced  her  bridal  home.  Like  one 
bereft  of  reason,  her  glances  wandered  from  object  to  object, 
yet  rested  on  none. 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  said  she,  in  a  whispered  tone.  Room  after 
room  they  silently  coursed  through  the  spacious  mansion.  They 
passed  the  dark  staircase,  which  she  well  remembered.  But  not 
until  she  reached  her  own  room — the  apartment  where  she  had 
suffered  from  a  husband's  tyranny,  where  she  parted  with  her 
infant  boy,  and  stole  at  midnight  from  his  father's  side — did 
she  betray  emotion.     Now  she  groaned  aloud. 


Guild.  361 

"  Be  calm,  dear  mother,"  said  her  son,  "  we  have  much  to  trj 
us  3'et." 

**  Yes,  that  is  true,"  she  said  mechanically,  and  then  walked 
towards  a  mirror  which  last  reflected  her  youthful  beauty,  and 
looked  upon  the  change  wrought  by  time  and  sorrow.  She 
threw  aside  her  close  hat  and  veil,  and  to  her  son's  astonish- 
ment, she  wore  no  cap  upon  her  head,  which  was  richly  adorned 
by  a  mass  of  dark-brown  hair,  which,  though  silvered  with  an 
occasional  thread  of  grey,  was  still  beautiful  and  luxuriant. 
Kot  a  trace  of  color  was  now  left  on  the  once  brilliant  cheek, 
and  the  fire  of  her  dark  eye  was  softened  into  a  mellow,  sad- 
dened light.  The  elegant  woman  was  there  reflected,  but  thf 
girlish  Rosa  Wilton  was  among  the  dreams  of  the  past.  Shr 
moved  with  the  same  dignity  of  carriage  that  had  charactei 
ized  her  youthful  appearance.  The  beauty  of  her  rare  smih. 
yet  lingered,  but  it  was  so  seldom  seen  about  her  faintly-colorec 
lips,  that  it  seemed  to  the  stranger  to  have  for  ever  passed 
away. 

Her  dress  was  black  velvet,  the  softest  lace  shading  her 
exposed  neck  and  throat. 

"  Are  you  ready  now,"  said  the  son,  as  he  gazed  with  pride 
and  sorrow  upon  his  beautiful  parent.  *'  He  must  go  to-night." 

"  Yes,  I  am  ready,"  said  Rosa  Wilton  ;  '*  call  him  in  now." 
But  as  she  spoke,  her  lips  grew  white  as  her  cheek. 

After  a  short  absence,  Roger  Wilton  entered  the  presence  of 
his  wife.  She  rose  to  meet  him,  and  looked  a  Juno  in  her  mag- 
nificent but  faded  beauty.  As  the  eye  of  Roger  Wilton  met 
hers,  he  was  for  an  instant  bewildered.  He  looked  again  and 
met  her  full  glance — he  staggered — his  gaze  was  transfixed. 
He  knew  that  she  who  had  fled  from  his  tyranny  in  her  youth, 
had  come  again  to  his  home  ;  for  what  purpose  he  had  no 
strength  or  courage  then  to  ask.  It  was  enough  that  the  terror 
of  his  life  had  reappeared,  bearing  a  small  scroll  in  her  hand. 
His  cold  eye  was  bent  upon  her  face,  while  he  inaudibly  said, 

"  Rosa  !  is  it  thus  we  meet  ?" 

"It  is,  and  for  a  painful  duty.  Long  years  have  fled  since 
we  parted,  and  since  then  I  have  kept  well  your  secret.  For  his 
sake  I  have  done  this  wrong.  Flee  now,  while  I  bid  you  go, 
for  ere  to-morrow  justice  will  be  done  him  whom  you 
defrauded." 

"  I  defy  you,"  said  Roger  Wilton,  with  livid  rage.  "  Where 
is  your  proof  of  fraud  ?" 

16 


362  Isoka's    Child. 

Kosa  Wilton,  at  this  query,  turned  towards  MC  son,  wht? 
was  scarcely  less  pale  than  his  father. 

"  It  is  all  true,  my  father,"  said  Rufus.  **  The  will  w^as  res- 
cued from  the  burning  grate." 

"  Do  you  not  remember  the  rustling  in  the  twilight — the 
shadow  on  the  wall  ?  I  caused  them  both,  and  I  saved  the 
burning  will,"  said  the  pallid  wife. 

Rigid  and  motionless  stood  the  convicted  man.  The  son 
stepped  forward,  and  seizing  his  arm,  said,  while  the  tears 
streamed  from  his  eyes, — 

"  A  steamer  sails  to-night  ;  fly  for  you?-  sake — for  mine" 

"  Yes,"  the  father  muttered  between  his  clenched  teeth,  and 
fled  into  another  room.  Soon  a  report  of  a  pistol  was  heard, 
— a  fall — and  they  that  listened  knew  that  Roger  Wilton  was 
no  more  among  the  living. 

The  dreadful  tragedy  was  soon  spread  abroad,  and  amidst 
the  excitement  of  the  hour,  Kbsa  Wilton  had  secretly  fled. 
Her  son  found  a  slip  of  paper  which  she  left,  on  which 
was  written,  "  Seek  not  to  find  me  now — we  shall  meet 
again." 

Rufus  Wilton's  next  duty  was  to  seek  Colonel  Livingston. 
He  longed  to  pass  the  trying  scene  awaiting  him,  and  abide  its 
consequences.  He  dared  not  go  to  Yillacora,  lest  he  should 
meet  Cora.  Her  presence,  he  feared,  would  prevent  the  fulfill- 
ment of  his  duty.  He  penned  a  note,  and  sent  it  to  the  Colo- 
nel, requesting  him  to  meet  him  on  his  father's  grounds.  The 
request  was  received  while  the  latter  was  at  dinner.  The 
news  of  Roger  Wilton's  suicidal  death  had  reached  his  ears, 
and  he  obeyed  the  summons  doubtingly. 

Rufus  Wilton  met  him  on  the  avenue,  and  in  a  calm,  collected 
tone  bade  the  Colonel  retire  with  him  to  a  private  room  within 
the  mansion.  After  some  hesitation  the  latter  was  led  on, 
impelled  by  the  earnestness  of  his  manner  and  the  mystery  of 
the  errand. 

After  both  were  seated,  Rufus  Wilton  drew^  forth  the  rescued 
will,  and  handed  it  to  the  astonished  man.  His  eyes  grew 
blind  while  he  looked  upon  the  paper. 

"Where  did  you  find  this  ?"  he  said  with  excitement  of 
feeling. 

"  A^k  no  question,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Its  recovery  has  caused 
my  father's  death.  He  has  paid  the  penalty  of  his  crime. 
And  now  we  part.     My  debt  to  you,  if  God  permits.  I'll  pay 


^soka's    Chilx).  363 

Innocently  I   have  defrauded  you  of  your  own,   but,  thank 
Heaven,  I  have  not  also  of  your  daughter." 

With  these  words  Rufus  Wilton  parted  with  the  Colonel, 
and  made  immediate  arrangements  for  his  journey  south,  while 
tlie  latter  sought  to  acquaint  Cora  with  the  exciting  occur- 
ences which  had  taken  place  at  the  Park,  and  the  recovery  of 
the  will.  He  was  so  much  elated  with  the  latter  circumstance, 
tl-.at  he  scarcely  observed  the  pallid  hue  of  Cora's  face,  as  she 
said  :  "  And  where  is  Rufus,  papa  ?" 

"  Gone  to  Virginia,  my  daughter.  He  will  write  you  from 
there.  This  change  of  circumstances  naturally  mortifies  him, 
and  it  is  possible,  Cora,  that  he  will  release  you  from  your 
engagement.  It  is  an  awkward  situation  for  him,  and  he  had 
better  be  away  until  the  affair  blows  over.  He  is  a  clever 
fellow,  and  has  behaved  honorably,  but  his  position  is  decid- 
edly affected  by  the  matter.  You  will  be  independent  now, 
you  know,  and  perhaps  may  change  your  own  mind." 

"  Poor  Rufus  !"  said  Cora,  in  a  tone  of  anguish;  then  cover 
ing  her  eyes,  burst  into  tears,  and  went  to  her  own  room. 

The  Colonel  was  too  much  excited  to  observe  her  depression, 
though  he  wondered  that  she  seemed  so  little  pleased  with  the 
restoration  of  their  property,  and  being  himself  so  much  occn- 
piecl  in  thinking  of  the  necessary  steps  to  be- taken  to  take  pos- 
session of  it,  his  thoughts  naturally  wandered  from  the  situa- 
tion of  tiie  young  lovers. 

His  first  movement,  as  in  all  cases  of  emergency,  was  to  send 
for  Mr.  Clarendon,  who  immediately  obeyed  the  summons,  and 
heartily  congratulated  the  Colonel  on  a  matter  of  such  impor- 
tance to  him.  The  latter  was  still  puzzled  regarding  the  reco- 
very of  the  will,  and  had  never  been  able  to  trace  the  source 
of  the  anonymous  note,  w^iich  had  always  encouraged  him 
that  he  should  yet  come  in  possession  of  his  father's  estate. 

Mr.  Clarendon  came  to  Yillacora,  but  in  broken  spirits 
He  learned  with  indifference  that  Rufus  Wilton  had  himself 
released  Cora  from  her  engagement  to  him,  and  with  little 
thought  of  anything  but  the  situation  of  Flora,  proceeded  to 
the  adjustment  of  the  Colonel's  business.  He  met  Cora,  and 
congratulated  her  on  the  accession  of  fortune,  but  before  the 
words  had  escaped  his  lips,  he  saw  how  much  more  she  needed 
compassion  than  any  sympathy  for  joyful  emotion.  Her 
sweet  face  wore  a  dejected  look,  and  her  languid  eyes  were 
often   tearful.     That  there  was  occasion  for  satisfaction  and 


364 


happiness,  she  was  often  told,  and  the  air  of  deference  which 
even  the  servants  assumed,  told  her  that  she  held  a  new  posi- 
tion. The  heiress  of  the  vast  property  of  Robert  Livingston, 
was  no  longer  an  obscure  individual,  and  a  great  effort  was 
made  by  hosts  of  admiring  friends,  to  draw  Cora  from  seclu- 
sion, and  to  present  her  to  the  fashionable  world  as  a  beauty 
and  an  heiress. 

But  we  are  in  advance  of  our  tale,  for  not  many  days  had 
passed  after  Rufus  Wilton's  absence,  before  she  received  a 
letter  from  him.  A  bright  flush  of  joy  kindled  her  cheek,  on 
its  reception,  and  with  hope  at  her  heart,  she  went  to  her  own 
chamber  to  peruse  the  lines  of  her  beloved  Wilton. 

It  ran  thus  : 

''  You  are  sad,  I  know,  dearest  Cora,  even  in  your  joy,  for  your  heart  is 
not  one  to  forget  those  who  sorrow,  while  you  sympathize  in  the  weal 
of  others.  When  we  last  met,  you  remember,  with  what  pain  I  foreboded 
our  separation  ;  I  was  somewhat  prepared  for  the  shock,  that  has  humi- 
liated and  crushed  me.  It  is  not  the  loss  of  property  I  deplore  ;  that  I 
can  cheerfully  resign,  but  that  in  dishonor  and  shame,  I  am  the  son  of 
one  who  has  for  years  defrauded  your  father,  having  myself  been  edu- 
cated and  supported  from  his  inheritance,  and  squandered  lavishly  sums 
that  might  have  added  so  essentially  to  his  and  your  comfort — that^fRfil 
I  have  presumed  to  offer  to  you  my  hand.  But  Cora,  you  will  believe 
me  guiltless  of  intended  wrong.  I  cannot  reveal  the  manner  in  which  I 
■came  in  possession  of  this  long  lost  will,  but  you  will  not  think  that  I 
secreted  it ;  had  I  done  so,  why  have  I  now  delivered  it  to  its  owner? 

"  The  world  will  look  upon  my  father's  family  as  dishonored,  and  his 
humiliating  death  but  as  a  part  of  his  erring  life.  The  name  of  "Wiltou 
is  now  one  of  shame,  and  until  it  is  redeemed  by  my  own  exertion,  I 
could  never  offer  it  to  any  woman,  much  less  to  the  daughter  of  one  who 
has  ever  scorned  it. 

'•  My  dearly  loved  one,  to  part  with  you,  is  like  severing  my  heart 
frum  its  tenement ;  I  shall  dream  of  you  by  night  and  by  day.  I  snail 
see  your  tears  fall  for  him,  who  will  love  you  as  his  life.  But  we  shall 
be  separated  by  a  barrier  that  cannot  be  removed.  I  shall  go  forth  into 
the  world,  a  poor  man,  with  a  sorrowing  heart.  I  am  unused  to  the 
struggles  of  adversity,  and  to  contend  with  them  will,  at  first,  cost  me 
pain  ;  but  until  I  can  appear  on  my  native  soil,  independent  in  my  cir- 
cumstances, the  stigma  attached  to  my  father's  name  washed  away  in 
that  of  my  own  honorable  reputation,  I  shall  not  reappear  on  the  shores 
of  the  Hudson 


Is  oka's    Child.  365 

"  Don't  mourn  for  me,  darling,  my  own  beart-acbe  is  enough.  You  are 
commencing  life  under  auspices  brilliant  and  beautiful.  You  will  have 
many  adorers  of  your  fortune,  and  more  heart-worshipers.  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  sacrifice  yourself  for  me.  As  time  wears  away,  you  may 
think  less  of  me,  and,  perchance,  another  will  take  my  place  in  your 
love.  If  so,  dear  one,  remember  that  you  are  released  from  your 
engagement.  I  could  not  see  you  before  I  left ;  your  sweet  face  would 
have  maddened  me,  and  disabled  me  from  obeying  my  sense  of  duty, 
towards  you  and  myself. 

"  Farewell,  my  only  loved,  write  me,  if  but  one  line, 

"  RuFus  Wilton.-' 

With  heartfelt  sobs  Cora  concluded  this  letter.  Of  what 
value  to  her  was  her  proud  fortune  ?  It  had  now  no  power  to 
make  her  happy,  and  she  looked  upon  the  prospect  of  wealth, 
but  as  the  coraraencement  of  misery.  She  replied  to  Wilton 
briefly,  but  feelingly,  again  pledging  her  vows,  promising  fidel- 
ity to  him,  through  all  ills.  Cora  never  allowed  her  griefs  to 
afflict  others,  so  she  strove  to  be  cheerful,  and  to  enter  sympa- 
thizingly  into  her  father's  plans  for  increasing  their  comfort. 
Mr.  Clarendon  was  much  with  them,  and  Cora  observed  his 
(abstraction  of  mind,  even  while  conversing  with  her.  At  first 
she  attributed  it  to  his  engrossing  business  cares,  but  finally 
perceived  that  a  settled  gloom  was  evidently  creeping  over  his 
spirits.  He  seemed  misanthropic  and  dull,  after  coming  from 
her  father's  study,  and  though  friendly  and  kind  in  his  manner 
towards  her,  his  reserve  became  habitual,  and  unapproachable. 

The  Colonel  had  resolved  to  repair  his  father's  old  home,  and 
soon  to  take  possession  of  the  residence.  The  necessary  pro- 
ceedings had  been  taken,  to  secure  to  him  the  entire  estate  of 
the  late  Roger  Wilton,  which  added  ten  years,  seemingly,  to 
the  life  of  its  heir,  and  had  the  softening  effect  of  chasing  from 
his  brow,  many  wrinkles  that  care  and  anxiety  had  there 
gathered. 

It  was  an  exciting  day  to  the  Colonel,  when  he  entered  the 
doors  of  his  childhood's  home,  its  owner  and  legal  inheritor  ; 
and  though  Cora  accompanied  her  father,  sadly,  joylessly  to 
the  long  coveted  mansion,  she  seemed  happy,  in  her  father's 
eyes,  for  she  smiled  sympathizingly  in  his  enthusiasm,  for  all 
its  well-remembered  haunts. 

^  She  chose  for  herself  the  old  room  of  Rufus  Wilton,  and 
with  mingled  sadness  and  hope,  looked  forward  to  an  uncertain 


306  Isora's    Child. 

future.  One  evening,  after  a  clay  of  unceasing  attention,  upon 
a  crowd  of  visitors  from  the  city,  Mr.  Clarendon  sought  the 
society  of  Cora,  she  having  wandered  oJBT  among  the  old  willow 
trees,  the  favorite  resort  of  her  absent  lover. 

"  You  are  romantic  to-night,"  said  he.    "  For  a  young  heiress, 
you  ought  to  be  calculating  your  chances  for  your  next  win 
ter's  conquests,  and  picturing  to  yourself  a  more  brilliant  sea- 
son than  you  have  ever  known  in  town.  Miss  Cora." 

"  Do  these  pleasures  seem  to  you  paramount  to  all  others  ?" 
said  Cora.  "  You  ought  to  be  a  judge  of  the  value  of  the 
amusements  of  fashionable  life,  whether  they  satisfy  the  heart 
or  not." 

.  "I  do  not  seek  satisfaction,"  replied  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  "  ex- 
citement is  the  food  of  fashionable  devotees.  This  drives  away 
weariness,  the  blues,  and  deadens  disappointment.  What  do 
you  suppose  a  miserable  bachelor  like  myself  has  to  amuse 
him,  but  his  books  and  his  world  V\ 

The  query  was  made  playfully,  but  Cora  saw  that  sadness 
lurked  beneath  it.  She  did  not  reply,  and  Mr.  Clarendon  con- 
tinued. "  Don't  you  suppose  you  would  be  happier  where  you 
could  feed  on  adulation,  and  in  the  intoxication  of  a  round  of 
city  amusements,  engross  yourself  until  you  cared  not  which 
gay  scene  came  next,  provided  tliat  in  it  you  forgot  all  but  the 
pleasures  of  sense — scarcely  knowing  whether  you  had  a  mind, 
a  heart,  or  any  purpose  in  life  ?" 

"  I  might  be  happy  for  the  time,"  said  Cora,  "  but  I  believe 
that  there  is  no  real  abiding  peace  where  one  has  no  moment 
to  reflect." 

"  And  yet  you  were  happy  last  winter  in  town,"  said  Mr. 
Clarendon. 

Cora's  cheek  grew  red  and  pale  as  she  said  :  "  Yes,  but  I 
do  not  know  that  the  gay  world,  or  its  adulation,  made  me 
so." 

"  Xo,  Cora,  I  do  not  think  it  did,  a.nd  then  I  was  envious 
of  the  source  of  your  happiness.  But  I  have  since  changed, 
I  would  now  restore  you,  if  I  could,  to  the  same  happy  frame 
of  mind." 

A  sweet  smile  of  gratitude  showed  Mr.  Clarendon  that  his  gen- 
uine kind  feeling  was  appreciated.  The  derangement  of  Flora  had 
worked  an  entire  revolution  in  Louis  Clarendon.  She  was  ever 
before  him,  reproaching  him  for  the  sacrifice  of  her  intellect, 
while  the  promise  he  made  to  her  dying  mother  came  chiming  on 


I  S  O  K  a'  S     C  11  I  L  D  .  367 

rtis  memory,  as  she  o^ave  him  her  child,  echoing  his  own  words, 
^'  I  will  keep  the  trust. ^^ 

Had  he  kept  it  ?  he  asked  himself,  during  the  hours  of  sun- 
light, and  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  while  he  fancied  his  once 
beautiful  idol  but  an  object  of  compassion  ? 

He  blamed  himself  for  his  reckless  pursuit  of  ])leasnre,  to  the 
sacrifice  of  all  he  loved.  He  now  looked  upon  Cora  Livingston, 
and  penitently  resolved  that  he  would  never  throw  a  straw  in 
the  way  of  iier  happiness,  selfishly  as  he  had  pursued  her, 
regardless  of  all  but  his  worldly  pride  and  ambition.  She  was 
now  free,  and  sought  by  a  crowd  of  courtiers,  from  whom  it 
might  gratify  his  pride  to  carry  off  the  prize. 

He  knew  the  real  cause  of  her  sadness,  and  interested  him- 
self in  the  fate  of  Rufns  Wilton.  He  learned  that  he  was  ill 
in  an  obscure  town,  and  suffering  from  poverty.  He  ascer- 
tained his  location,  and  determined  to  acquaint  Cora  with  th^ 
fact,  and  test  her  love  for  her  once  gay  suitor. 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Cora,  in  reply  to  his  last  words.  ''Time 
can  only  do  that.  For  my  father's  sake,  I  hope  to  be  cheer- 
ful." 

•'  Would  you  like  to  know  the  situation  of  Wilton  ?"  said 
Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  Oh!  yes,  at  this  moment,"  said  Cora. 

"  What  would  you  do,  if  you  knew  that  he  was  ill,  poor,  and 
suffering  ?" 

"  I  would  go  to  him,  if  God  permitted  me,"  said  Cora. 

"  Come,  then,  with  me,  to-morrow,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  With  you  ?"  said  Cora,  doubtingly. 

"  Yes,  with  me,  Cora;  consider  me,  henceforth,  your  brother. 
I  know  now  how  strong  is  the  passion  of  love,  in  w^omau — I  know- 
by  its  loss,  how  to  prize  it  for  another." 

"Oh!  Mr.  Clarendon,  I  will  show  my  trust  in  you — I  will 
believe  that  you  wish  but  my  happiness  in  this." 

"  And  that  of  the  noble  heart  on  whom  it  rests." 

"Heaven  bless  you,"  murmured  Cora,  with  tearful  eyes. 

"  AVill  you  tell  your  father  of  our  going  ?" 

'  Oh!  yes,  I  will  never  deceive  him." 

*'  iSoble  girl,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  "  you  have  taught  me 
the  beauty  of  truth  and  devotion,  and  when  I  think  that  I 
myself  have  cast  away  as  much — a  being  who  would  have  sweet- 
ened and  blessed  my  existence,  I  feel  that  the  punishment  I 
bear^is  well  merited.     I  owe  Wilton  an   atonement  for  mj 


8n8  I  S  O  R  a'  S      C  ii  I  L  D. 

gross  treatment  of  him.  Few  would  have  so  resigned  yoa, 
Cora." 

As  Mr.  Clarendon  ceased,  Cora  flew  to  her  father's  Ride,  and 
with  gushing  tears  told  him  of  the  sufferings  and  situation  of 
Wilton  and  of  her  wish  to  go  to  him. 

"  My  daughter!"  said  Colonel  Livingston,  in  a  tone  of  amaze- 
ment, "  what  a  sacrifice  of  your  dignity!  what  dereliction  of 
propriety.     How  can  you  think  of  anything  so  imprudent  V 

"  But,  papa,  he  is  ill,  and  perhaps  made  so  by  the  sufferings 
brought  of  late  upon  him." 

"  But  he  can  hardly  expect  a  young  lady  of  your  position  to 
nurse  him,  my  daughter.  How  did  you  think  of  going  on  this 
absurd  errand,  and  with  whom  ?" 

"Mr.  Clarendon  will  go  with  me.  He  approves  of  it,  papa, 
and  I  will  take  my  maid  with  me.  Oh!  I  do  so  wish  to  tell 
•him  that  I  cannot  so  easily  give  him  up." 

"  How  indelicate,  my  child.  I  did  not  think  this  of  you, 
Cora — you  to  sue  for  the  love  of  a  fugitive  from" 

"  My  father,  say  no  cruel  thing  of  the  noblest  of  God's  ciea- 
tures.  Rufus  Wilton  has  resigned  me,  but  the  pride  of  the 
high-souled  man  has  driven  him  to  it.  Oh!  who  can  be  named 
in  comparison  v>ith  my  poor,  sorrowing  Rufus  ?" 

"  Will  Mr.  Clarendon  protect  you,  and  bring  yoa  safely 
back  ?  It  is  a  fruitless,  romantic  errand,  but  the  young  man 
has  too  much  spirit,  I  believe,  to  thus  win  back  his  lost  estate. 
The  ride  may  benefit  you,  to  the  village  of  Haymount,  where 
they  say  he  is.  If  you  go,  take  my  carriage,  and  make  your 
errand  ostensibly  one  of  business.  Mr.  Clarendon  will  see  to 
this." 

Cora  kissed  her  father  gratefully,  and  went  back  to  the  par- 
lor to  tell  Mr.  Clarendon  that  she  had  succeeded  in  gaining  his 
consent,  if  her  errand  was  kept  secret. 

The  day  following,  Cora  and  Mr.  Clarendon  left  the  park  for 
the  village  w^here  they  understood  that  Wilton  had  gone  for  a 
brief  sojourn.  The  distance  was  but  twenty  miles,  which  they 
accomplished  after  a  pleasant  drive.  As  the  carriage  drove 
up  to  the  country  inn,  it  attracted  much  attention  and  drew 
towards  the  window  of  an  humble  dwelling,  the  languid  form 
of  Rufus  Wilton,  who  was  just  recovering  from  illness.  By  his 
side,  supporting  him,  was  his  mother,  whom  he  had  followed, 
and  whose  destiny  he  resolved  in  life  to  share. 

The  equipage  attracted  the  eyes  of  the  dejected  invalid,  and 


I  s  o  K  A '  s    Child.  369 

he  continued  to  look  upon  it  with  curiosity  and  interest,  but 
when  to  his  utter  amazement,  Mr.  Clarendon  stepped  forth, 
followed  by  a  form  and  face  which  he  could  not  mistake,  he 
leaned  against  the  wall  like  one  paralyzed  with  suffering. 
"  Could  they  be  married  ?"  his  heart  asked,  and  "  was  this 
their  bridal  tour  ?"  His  reason  denied  the  false  supposition, 
but  the  fears  of  an  unsettled  feeble  brain,  occasioned  by  conges- 
tion, overpowered  his  sane  convictions,  and  for  a  moment  he 
believed  it  true,  that  his  forsaken  Cora  had  become  the  bride 
of  Mr.  Clarendon. 

*•  Let  us  go  from  here,  dear  mother,"  he  said,  "  Let  me  not 
meet  them — they  are  happy,  and  I  will  not  have  tliem  look  upon 
the  miserable.  Ah,  Cora,  this  was  too  soon — to  cruel,  to  thus 
early  strike  the  blow  !" 

*'  You  are  feeble,  Rufus,  and  are  harboring  a  delusion. 
Look,  they  are  coming  this  way,  my  son." 

The  invalid  roused  from  his  sunken  attitude,  and  stood 
upright.  His  manly  form  strove  to  assume  its  erect  bearing, 
and  his  face  became,  by  a  strong  effort,  composed  and  calm  in 
its  noble  aspect.  His  cheeks  were  thin,  and  his  large  eyes 
sunken, — their  fire  was  dimmed,  but  at  intervals  they  flashed 
with  feeling. 

To  the  door  of  Wilton's  lodgings,  Cora  and  Mr.  Clarendon 
came  ;  she,  so  simple  in  her  loveliness,  no  one  would  have 
deemed  her  the  daughter  of  the  proud  and  stately  Colonel 
Livingston. 

The  former  inquired  for  Wilton.  When  he  stepped  forward 
with  so  firm  a  step,  his  mother  watched  him  in  amazement. 
His  debility  seemed  to  have  suddenly  departed,  and  in  its  place, 
a  burning  fever  to  have  risen. 

'*  I  have  brought  you  a  comforter,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon 
kindly,  while  Cora  stepped  forward,  and  met  the  brilliant  eyes, 
and  felt  the  clasp  of  Rufus  Wilton's  burning  fingers. 

"  Cora,"  said  he,  "  I  did  not  think  to  meet  you  here."  Mr. 
Clarendon  at  the  moment  disappeared,  leaving  the  lovers 
alone. 

'*  But  I  came,  dear  Rufus — oh,  are  you  sorry  ?" 

"  How  have  you  come,  Cora — as  Mr.  Clarendon's  wife  ?" 
said  Wilton,  commanding  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  are  wild  to  think  so  ;  I  have  come  to  ask  you 
to  return  to  those  who  love  you." 

*'  Ah,  so  I  drcained,  Cora,  in  my  illness  ;  but  you  seemed  an 

16* 


370  Isoea's    Child. 

angel,  not  a  woman  then,  yet,  I  bade  the  tempter  flee,  and  so 
I  must  say  to  you,  sweet  one." 

"  Rufus,  do  you  not  love  me  longer  ?"  said  Cora,  with  a 
modest  blush. 

**  Yes,  too  well,  ray  precious  girl,  to  dare  now  to  trust  my 
heart  to  tell  its  love." 

"  Then,  oh,  come  back,"  said  Cora,  while  her  golden  curls 
touched  tiie  cheek  that  bent  forward  near  her  own.  "  Come 
back,  or  take  me  with  you."  Tremblingly,  softly,  were  these 
words  whispered  in  the  ear  that  listened  to  an  appeal  that 
thrilled  and  maddened  the  pulses  of  the  passionate,  but  proud, 
high-spirited  Wilton. 

"  Cora,"  he  replied,  while  he  kissed  the  white  forehead  that 
he  raised  from  his  arm,  "has  it  come  to  this?  oh,  would  to 
God,  I  could  take  you,  darling.  Can  you  wait  for  me 
through  long  years,  wait  until  I  return  for  you  in  honor  ;  wait 
until  independently  I  can  come  to  claim  you,  without  one  emo- 
tion of  shame,  while  I  ask  you  from  your  proud  parent." 

"  For  ever,  Rufus,  if  God  wills  that  we  must  now  part  ?" 

"  God  bless,  and  keep  you  then — oh,  you  are  not  as  I  feared, 
the  wife  of  Clarendon  ;  how  came  you  with  him  ?" 

"  He  proposed  to  bring  me  to  you — he  is  your  friend,  dear 
Rufus,  and  will  aid  you." 

"  No,  I  ask  no  aid,  Cora,  much  less  from  him  ;  I  forgive, 
but  can't  forget  his  words." 

'•  Won't  you  accept  it  from — from  her  you  love  ?"  said  Cora, 
in  the  softest  whisper, 

"  My  .sweet,  gentle  one,  this  too,  I  must  refuse — let  me  go 
forth  alone,  unaided." 

"  Bui  you  are  ill. 

"  I  shall  be  ill  no  longer — come  to  my  heart,  and  swear  in 
your  young  beauty,  pride,  and  wealth,  that  naught  but  love, 
pure,  and  holy,  brought  you  to  your  wretched  lover — that  not 
one  emotion  of  pity  ruled  you." 

"  Oh,  Rufus,  I  cannot  speak  falsely,  'twas  both,  but  love 
overruled  every  feeling  of  my  heart,  it  gave  me  courage,  for  I 
need  it  to  seek  you." 

Rufus  Wilton  had  never  so  wholly  loved  the  spotless  being, 
who  had  risen  above  petty  scruples  that  would  have  ruled  her 
sex,  and  thrown  herself  in  her  proud  beauty,  at  her  wretched 
lover's  feet,  asking,  in  his  hour  of  deep  humiliation,  to  share  his 
fate. 


I  S  0  li  A.'  S      (J  U  I  L  D  .  371 

"  But  you  know  not,  dear  Rufus,"  said  Cora,  "  bow  hard  it 
^ill  be  to  suffer  privation,  after  enjoying  every  luxury." 

"  Oh,  stop,  Cora,  you  knew  what  privation  was,  while  I  was 
living  on  your  wealth.  Do  not  fear  for  me ;  I  have  now  some- 
thing to  struggle  for.  I  have  education,  and,  I  trust,  ability. 
I  shall  go  to  Virginia,  near  the  birthplace  of  my  mother,  and 
commence  such  a  life  as  I  have  never  known  ;  for  it  will  be 
one  of  toil.  But,"  a  smile  now  lighted  his  features,  "  it  will 
be  sweetened  by  the  stimulus  I  shall  have  to  work.  Come 
nearer,  darling,  for  I  have  a  secret  now  to  tell  you  ;  I  have 
found  my  long-lost  mother,  and  she  will  accompany  me  to  her 
childhood's  home." 

"  Where  is  she,"  said  Cora,  eagerly,  "  I  long  to  see  her." 

"I  will  call  her,  Cora,  but  not  yet,  these  precious  moments, 
I  am  jealous  of.  I  did  not  hope  for  such  bliss  as  this  on 
earth.  What  led  you  to  think  that  you  could  come  to  see 
me?" 

"  I  did  not  stop  to  think  ;  I  only  knew  that  you  would  not 
come  to  me — that  you  would  give  me  up,  because  you  were 
poor  and  sad,  while  I  had  wealth,  and  at  least  the  heart 
to  comfort  you.'' 

"  Blessed  girl !  I  have  been  ill,  and  very  wretched  ;  and 
now  I  fear  that  you  may  repent  this  step.  Does  your  father 
approve  of  it  ?" 

"  He  consented,"  said  Cora,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  understand  you,  dearest — wait  awhile,  and  then,  if  he 
refuses  his  daughter  to  me,  I  will  not  fear  to  ask  for  her. 
And  so  you  have  left  your  cottage  home  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  have  your  old  room,  that  overlooks  the  water 
— but  I  cried  to  part  with  Yillacora.  I  shall  make  papa  give 
the  place  to  me  for  its  old  associations." 

"  And  I  hope  some  day  to  present  you  one  with  new 
charms,"  said  Wilton,  "  where  your  foot  has  never  trod,  and 
oxvQ  purchased  by  my  labor.  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  with 
another,  unless  a  legacy  should  be  left  to  me — this  I  will  not 
despise.  But  as  I  have  no  relative,  to  ray  knowledge,  but  my 
Dachelor  uncle,  who  is  buried  alive  in  India,  I  see  no  chance 
3f  this — so  I  must  gro  to  work." 

"  And  now,  I  must  go  home." 

'*  So  soon  ?" 

"  Yes,  Rufus,  we  must  return  before  night." 

"With  Mr.  Clarendon,"  Wilton  sighed.     "Well,  bless  you, 


S72  I  s  0  K  a'  s    Child. 

and  him,  foi'  this  ;  it  is  hard  to  part,  but  remember  that  we 
do  so  in  hope.  Your  curls  are  long  and  soft  as  ever — give 
me  one  before  you  go,  bright  and  sunny  as  its  ov\'ner." 

"Then,  Rufus,  you  must  choose  it," 

"  Ah,  it  is  a  pity  to  sever  it  from  its  sister  locks  ;  but  you 
must  remember  it  is  all  of  you  that  I  can  take  away." 

"  Not  all,  Rufus." 

"  No,  not  all,  1  trust,  but  I  shall  look  upon  it,  like  a  sunbeam 
gilding  my  hopes.  Here  it  is,  a  sweet  curl,  and  I'll  keep  it 
until  you  give  me  all  the  rest. 

"  Supposing  they  should  be  grey,  would  you  want  them 
then  ?"  said  Cora,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  for  I  shall  not  see  them  change.  Like  the  sky  at 
sunset,  thy  hues  may  fade  and  soften  into  age  ;  but  even  night 
will  have  its  loveliness  ;  for  the  brightness  of  my  star  will  still 
remain  undimmed.  Oh,  my  darling  Cora,  preserve  your 
beauty,  while  you  can  ;  but  cherish  more  purely  the  soul 
within  ;  this  is  a  treasure  worth  preserving.  The  heart  cannot 
grow  old  or  grey." 

Cora  lifted  her  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  they  fell  beneath  the 
tender  glance  that  met  them,  as  the  low  "  good-bye "  was 
exchanged,  with  mingled  hope  and  fear.  But  she  saw  the 
cheek  that  grew  paler,  as  she  put  her  hand  in  his;  and  looking 
up  with  trustful  sweetness,  met  the  long  fervent  kiss,  that  told 
of  joy  and  hope — and  fled  away.  As  she  passed  through  the 
hall,  a  form,  once  seen,  appeared  in  view,  and  in  the  arms  of 
Mrs.  Linden,  she  received  a  fond  mother's  greeting.  She 
wondered,  yet  asked  then  no  explanation  of  the  mystery  that 
united  Mrs.  Linden  with  the  wife  of  Roger  Wilton. 

Mr.  Clarendon  awaited  Cora's  return  ;  and  although  he  saw 
her  burning  cheek,  and  tearful  eyes,  he  said  nothing,  but  hur- 
ried her  away. 

Cora  returned  home  a  different  being.  The  rose  came  back  to 
her  cheek,  and  brightened  on  her  fresh,  sweet  lips.  Like  a 
glad  child,  she  again  sung  in  her  grandfather's  old  and  spa- 
cious halls  ;  her  ample  purse  enabled  her  to  do  ail  the  good 
her  heart  prompted  ;  and  many  an  aching  heart  she  caused  to 
bless  her  fairy  footsteps.  A  retinue  of  servants  now  filled  the 
places  of  Sophy  and  Judy — though  they  were  both  retained  in 
some  capacity.  Judy  was  elated  with  the  change  from  the 
cottage  to  the  park  ;  though  she  often  stopped  to  swing  on 
the  front  gate  at  Villacora,  and  to  climb  the  fence,  to  examine 


Isoka's    CniLD.  373 

the  old  hen-roost  ;  and  had  several  times  received  a  severo 
reproof  from  Cora,  for  bringing-  home  little  blue  eggs,  that  she 
had  stolen  out  of  the  nests  in  the  trees.  It  was  a  grand  phice 
for  her  to  rove  about  sunset,  over  the  grounds  ;  and  after  her 
work  was  done,  Cora  often  went  with  her  over  the  fields,  and 
into  the  green  clover  patches,  and  among  the  sweet  buckwheat 
blossoms  for  a  ramble,  and  Judv  was  bright  enough  to  know 
that  she  never  wearied  her  young  mistress,  when  she  talked 
about  the  "beautiful  young  man  "  that  used  to  go  about  with 
his  gun  and  rod,  over  the  same  rural  grounds.  And  Cora 
never  despised  the  company  of  her  little  black-eyed  Judy  ;  for 
besides  the  assistance  she  afforded  in  taking  down  bars,  and 
helping  her  over  stiles,  her  little  active  body  was  always 
something  to  laugh  at,  and  her  merry  voice  whispering  at  the 
dullest  moment.  The  Colonel  was  never  more  in  his  element, 
than  in  receiving,  in  his  parental  home,  his  numerous  guests, 
Avho  daily  feasted  at  his  table,  and  partook  of  his  generous 
flow  of  wine.  The  many  brilliant  and  fashionable  suitors  that 
flocked  around  the  pathway  of  his  beautiful  daughter,  ever 
met  with  his  cordial  reception — indifferently  and  coldly  as 
they  were  treated  by  Cora.  No  expense  was  spared  on  her 
personal  appearance  ;  and  even  her  cousin,  the  ever  elegantly 
apparelled  Mrs  Sidney,  was  astonished  at  her  cousin's  exqui- 
site, yet  simple  toilette.  But  Cora's  happiest  n:ioments  were, 
when  fleeing  from  all  the  pomp  and  parade  of  her  father's  new 
home,  she  could,  in  a  simple  flowing  dress  and  gipsy  hat, 
rove  off  by  herself,  and  beside  some  old  clump  of  wood 
violets,  sit  down  to  feast  over  the  letters  of  her  beloved 
Wilton. 

At  first  they  spoke  of  trying  and  difficult  circumstances, 
when  his  heart  seemed  to  fail  him  of  meeting  success  ;  then  of 
greater  progress  in  the  medical  profession,  which  he  had  chosen, 
and  of  the  eminence  which  he  had  better  prospect  of  attaining, 
from  the  devotion  he  had  paid  to  his  favorite  study  while  in 
ICurope,  and  in  the  hospitals  abroad.  He  now  nevei  regretted 
the  hours  that  he  had  spent,  in  his  love  for  the  science  of  sur- 
gery, in  witnessing  operations,  and  in  reading  medical  books, 
as  an  amusement,  rather  than  as  a  source  of  pecuniary  benefit. 

In  the  city  and  vicinity  of  Richmond  he  soon  became  widely 
known  as  au  accomplished  physician,  and  one  devoted  to  a  pro- 
fession, which  he  followed  with  zeal  and  ability.  But  of  this,  Wil- 
ton said  nothing  in  his  letters  to  Cora  but  words  of  love  and 


374  Isoka's    Child. 

encouragement  fortified  her  heart  in  his  absence,  and  at  the 
expiration  of  six  months,  with  feelings  of  joy  and  gratitude,  she 
assured  herself  that  there  would  in  time  be  no  barrier  between 
the  happiness  of  herself  and  her  absent  Wilton.  Dearly  were 
his  long  letters  prized,  and  fondly,  devotedly,  were  they 
mswered,  while  smiles  chased  away  the  bright  drops  as  they 
"ell,  as  kind  words,  with  their  charmed  power,  made  her  forget 
ihe  trials  and  perplexities  under  which  they  were  penned. 

Thus  was  Cora  made  happy  by  the  sweet  harbinger,  hope  ; 
while  the  change  in  her  own  situation,  derived  its  chief  satis- 
faction from  the  elevation  of  her  father's  spirits.  He  seemed  to 
ask  no  greater  comfort  than  to  pace  his  gravel  walks,  and  sur- 
vey his  mansion,  with  its  antique  carvings,  and  old  venerated  pil- 
lars, that  had  been  the  admiration  of  his  boyhood.  Another 
source  of  pleasure  lay  in  driving  his  fast  horses,  which,  in 
Cora's  opinion,  were  both  too  high-spirited  and  too  gay,  for  his 
years  ;  but  her  father  was  fond  of  the  exercise,  strangely  as  his 
taste  accorded  with  his  prudence,  on  most  matters  ;  and  not 
until  he  had  been  thrice  run  away  with,  and  received  several 
bad  bruises,  was  he  aware  of  his  temerity.  He  had  neither 
much  discretion  in  his  choice  of  coachmen,  thinking  much  more 
of  their  appearance  on  the  box,  than  of  their  skill  in  driving. 
Change,  too,  from  abstemious  living,  and  his  one  glass  of  wine 
at  dinner,  to  choice  viands,  and  such  luxurious  entertainments 
as  his  increase  of  friends  made  necessary,  brought  on  mysteri- 
ous pains,  which  he  at  first  called  neuralgia,  and  rheumatism, 
but  was  finally  compelled  to  believe  to  be  twinges  of  gout. 
But  this  affiiction  brought  many  agreeable  physicians  to  his 
house,  whose  courtesy  and  sympathy  afforded  some  consola- 
tion, making  him  feel  that  the  preservation  of  his  health  and 
life  had  afforded  them  hours  of  solicitude  and  pain,  nearly 
equivalent  to  his  own.  It  was  gratifying,  too,  to  the  Colonel, 
to  see  his  well-trained  servants,  now  numerous,  obsequious, 
and  reverential  to  his  slightest  nod  ;  though  he  sometimes 
thought  that  there  was  not  as  much  quiet  in  his  spacious 
kitchen,  nor  quite  as  much  comfort  as  when  he  would  toast  his 
feet  over  Sophy's  old  bright  kitchen  stove.  Sometimes,  too,  he 
thought  of  the  old  fire-place  at  the  cottage,  and  the  big  log 
that  was  always  blazing,  with  a  bright  tea-kettle  steaming  for 
his  hot  night  potation.  To  be  sure,  there  was  now  hot  water 
enough,  but  his  toddy  had  to  come  through  the  hands  of  a  host 
of  darkies,  to  the  danger  of  being  either  cold  or  diminished  on 


Isora's    Child.  275 

its  way,  instead  of  smoking  hot  from  good  old  Sophy,  or  what 
was  better  still,  manufactured  and  drank  solely  by  himself. 
Judy  then  was  of  more  con-sequence,  and  something  to  be 
laughed  at  or  scolded  ;  but  she  was  now  a  cipher  in  the  circle 
of  wooly-headed  turbaned  usurpers,  who  had  set  both  her  and 
feophy-  aside  as  supernumeraries,  good-for-nothing  specimens  of 
country  cooks  and  waiters.  So  Judy  grew  idle  and  roving  in 
her  habits,  and  Sophy  sulky,  both  circumstances  which  annoyed 
the  Colonel,  especially  when  his  big  toe  twinged. 

Cora,  too,  with  all  his  pride  and  ambition  for  her,  did  not 
seem  to  care  any  more  for  style  than  simplicity,  and  provoking 
as  it  was,  looked  as  well  in  her  pretty  muslin  robes,  with  fresh 
rose-buds  in  her  hair,  and  on  her  bosom,  as  with  all  the  splen- 
did silks  and  costly  jewels  that  he  could  adorn  her  ;  and  some- 
times he  thought  prettier  ;  then  what  father  who  had  spent  his 
life  in  yearning  as  he  had  done,  for  wealth  for  his  beloved  child, 
could  not  but  have  been  disappointed  to  have  seen  her  so 
regardless  of  its  importance,  and  the  advantages  accruing  from 
it  !  It  was  true,  he  thought,  she  seemed  rejoiced  to  know  that 
Yillacora  was  redeemed,  and  that  her  father's  debts  were  all 
paid  ;  but  on  the  whole,  he  seriously  believed  that  she  awoke 
at  her  little  cottage  home  with  smiles  full  as  sweet,  and  that  she 
loved  the  old  robins  that  sung  at  her  parlor  window,  even  better 
than  the  new  English  mocking  birds  that  he  had  purchased  for 
her.  She  had  now  a  much  greater  variety  in  her  pets,  but  still 
the  little  King  Charless  and  costly  greyhounds,  and  St.  Ber- 
nards, that  were  petted  around  in  their  gold-ringed  collars, 
were  all  deserted,  if  good  old  Frisk  showed  his  homely  nose  in 
the  group.  Besides  all  these  annoyances,  Cora  seemed  to 
think  the  strawberries,  or  cherries  no  sweeter  at  The  Park, 
than  those  she  had  gathered  in  the  old  garden,  and  ridiculous 
as  it  might  seem,  she  always  walked  fast  by  the  old  library, 
where  the  gloiomy  misanthrope  Roger  Wilton  shot  himself. 
But  there  was  one  place  that  had  its  pleasant  associations — • 
for  around  her  room  had  been  left  many  relics  of  its  old  occu 
pant, — sketches  from  his  pencil  adorned  the  walls,  and  lay 
loosely  about  in  the  old  table  drawers,  and  in  the  window 
bloomed  a  geranium  and  tea  rose  of  his  own  rearing  ;  but 
nothing  that  had  belonged  to  her  absent  lover  she  thought 
more  of,  than  a  little  grey  squirrel  that  ate  from  her  hand  as 
tamely  as  it  had  fed  from  his  own. 

The  Colonel  was  about  having  its  neck  wrung,  as  belonging 


370  Is  oka's    Child. 

to  the  old  occupants,  when  Cora  remembered  that  Rufus  had 
told  her  of  the  capture  of  his  favorite,  and  rescued  it  from  his 
hands.  So  there  were  times  when  the  Colonel  weighed  the 
advantages  of  great  wealth  with  a  competency,  and  the  bal- 
ance was  not  so  much  on  the  side  of  the  former,  as  it  had 
looked  in  the  distance.  Still  he  secretly  rejoiced  that  Rufus 
Wilton  had  suCBcienc  discretion  not  to  presume  to  make  him- 
self conspicuous  at  the  Park,  as  it  would  have  been  painful  to 
see  him  there  actually  poor,  after  he  had  recovered  his  estate 
by  the  young  man's  honesty,  though  the  world  talked  a  good 
deal  more  of  his  father's  want  of  the  virtue.  He  hoped  that 
Cora  would  yet  see  that  her  station  in  life  exacted  a  more 
suitable  alliance  than  her  romantic  attachment  for  a  boy  of  no 
especial  reputation  was  likely  to  furnish  her. 

Still  he  saw  that  it  amused  her  to  write  letters,  and  the 
young  man  was  so  far  off,  he  on  the  whole,  concluded  that  it 
improved  her  composition  to  practice  in  epistolary  correspond- 
ence, and  he  secretly  hoped  that  she  made  no  unlady-like  blots 
or  blunders.  He  sometimes  thought  that  he  would  like  to 
examine  them,  but  Judy  always  manifested  especial  delight  in 
delivering  Coral's  letters  to  the  waiter  for  the  post,  and  she 
knew  as  well  the  handwriting  of  the  correspondent  who  replied, 
as  she  did  his  queer,  big  eyes. 

There  was  but  one  in  the  household  beside  himself,  that 
seemed  to  appreciate,  as  he  did.  the  grandeur  of  his  new  home, 
and  that  was  the  stately  Lady  Livingston  in  canvas,  who  had 
for  more  than  a  century  stood  proudly  erect,  and  since  he  knew 
her,  queening  it  over  his  family  coat  of  arms,  and  who  seemed 
now  to  look  down  upon  late  proceedings  with  an  eye  to  their 
elevation  and  proper  dignity  concerning  their  restoration  to 
their  rights.  The  Colonel  was  especially  proud  of  his  ancestral 
relation,  when  visited  by  any  of  his  family  connections,  who 
latterly  felt  great  interest  in  their  retired  cousin,  who,  they 
confessed,  had  been  for  years  "a  man  of  peculiarly  intellectual 
tastes,  possessing  an  extraordinary  fancy  for  a  secluded  life, 
and  rural  occupations;  it  was  certainly  their  duty  to  draw  him 
out  more  into  society;  it  was  such  a  shame  that  such  a  finished 
gentleman,  and  moreover,  such  an  ornament  to  the  family, 
should  remain  buried  from  the  world.'-  So  the  hitherto  quiet 
Colonel  had  to  be  dragged  out,  to  dine  and  to  sup,  until  he 
begau  seemingly  to  believe  that  he  was  getting  dyspeptic,  and 
a  disease  in  his  eyes,  which  created  great  redness  about  them. 


Isora's    Child.  377 

But  it  was  vastly  agreeable  to  the  Colonel  to  find  tliat  he  was 
appreciated,  for  he  had  always  had  a  favorable  opinion  of  him- 
self, and  had  ever  felt  more  respect  for  Mr.  Clarendon  for 
the  reason  that  he  seemed  to  agree  with  him  on  this  tenacious 
point. 

But  now,  for  some  reason,  Mr.  Clarendon  seemed  to  hold 
back,  and  sometimes  gently  insinuated  that  sudden  changes  in 
a  man's  habits  were  injurious,  Vv^hich  the  Colonel  resented  as  an 
insinuation  that  he  had  not  always  been  a  man  of  consideration 
and  importance. 

Besides,  there  was  now  and  then  a  curl  evincing  contempt  on 
Lhe  lip  of  his  old  friend,  when  he  saw  some  of  his  old  wine-bib- 
oing,  broken-down  town  acquaintances  flattering  the  Colonel 
3n  his  choice  wines,  and  fast  horses,  the  merits  of  each  of  wiiich 
ohey  hoped  often  to  have  the  pleasure  of  trying.  Mr.  Claren- 
lon  might  have  unconsciously  betrayed  some  such  feeling,  for 
le  remembered  these  same  parasites  asking  him  "  how  he  could 
)ore  himself  with  that  tedious  old  limb  of  down-trodden  aris- 
^.ocracy — that  the  daughter  might  be  a  Hebe  for  aught  they 
^new,  but  that  blood  and  beauty  were  poor  attractions  for 
'-hem."  And  sometimes  he  could  have  kicked  them  from  their 
A'ell-cushioned  seats,  where  they  sat  with  their  blooming  noses 
ind  porcelain  teeth,  uttering  soft  nothings,  all  that  they  were 
•apable  of,  into  the  unheeding  ears  of  Cora.  How  exalted  she 
now  seemed  to  him,  in  her  pure,  simple  loveliness,  untouched  as 
-.he  was,  alike  by  adulation,  and  new  devotion. 

With  a  feeling  akin  to  pride,  for  he  could  never  be  indifferent 
10  Cora,  he  watched  the  coolness  and  dignity  of  her  manner, 
while  overwhelmed  with  the  high-bred  courtesies  of  the  many 
friends  and  relatives,  who  were  so  suddenly  impressed  with  the 
importance  of  introducing  her  into  society,  forgetful,  mean- 
while, of  the  "pretty  country  cousin"  that  they  had  nearly 
overlooked,  at  the  wedding  of  her  condescending  cousin,  Fanny. 

In  her  tete-d-tetes  with  Cora,  Mrs.  Sidney  often  alluded 
to  the  "poor  fellow,"  Rufus  Wilton,  while  she  congratulated 
her  that  she  had  so  fortunately  disposed  of  him.  Mr.  Sidney 
also  smoothed  down  his  scratch,  and  laughed  at  the  lucky 
escape  of  his  "  little  coz."  The  convulsive  effort  sometimes 
proved  too  much  for  the  nerves  of  the  amused  gentleman, 
whereupon  his  composed  wife  handed  him  a  glass  of  wine,  seeing 
mat  his  face  twitched,  which  foreboded  a  spasm;  and  as  he  was 
away  from  home,  she  preferred  the  affair  postponed. 


378 

Cousin  Fauny  and  her  husband  now  often  came  to  the  Park; 
she  thought  it  a  sweet  country-place,  and  so  nice  for  Mr,  Sid- 
ney, for  he  and  the  Colonel  could  gout  it  together,  while  she 
rejuvenated  in  her  cousin's  elegant  carriage,  with  the  young,  but 
somewhat  rustic  heiress. 

She  had  of  late  discovered  that  the  country  air  agreed  with 
her,  and  had  become  less  afraid  of  toads  and  grasshoppers; 
perhaps  there  were  not  so  many  at  the  grand  "  Park"  as  at 
Villacora,  and  she  was  able  to  luxuriate  with  the  last  novel,  en 
deshabiUd,  to  her  most  extravagant  and  voluptuous  ideas  of  the 
dolcefar  niente,  notwithstanding  the  horrid  country  noises  of 
which  she  had  once  complained.  Then,  too,  cousin  Panny  had 
serious  liopes  of  making  something  finally  quite  stylish  out  of 
her  chere  petite  Cora.  So  the  occupants  of  the  Park  were 
becoming  entirely  different  individuals  from  the  retired  father 
and  daughter  that  once  lived  so  quietly  at  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER     XXV. 

Tho'  close  the  link  that  bound  them, 
Yet  hath  Heaven  a  closer  tie 
To  the  true-hearted  given. 

Mrs.  Eslinq. 

i^TT/'HAT  do  you  think  of  my  plan,  doctor  ?"  said  Mr  Clar- 
TT  endon  to  Dr.  Vale.  ''Will  it  not  effect  her  recovery 
as  soon  as  any  other  ?  The  cottage  is  lovely  and  secluded, 
and  at  a  favorable  distance  from  town.  It  v/ill  be  an  entire 
change  to  her.  She  will  be  regaled  with  all  that  can  gratify 
the  senses,  and  have  pure  air  to  invigorate  her  bodily  health, 
the  feeble  condition  of  which  affects  much  her  state  of  mind. 
This  is  a  great  affliction,  doctor  ;  this  poor  child  1  have  taken 
deep  interest  in.  Will  not  her  reason  return  with  restored 
health  of  body  ?"  continued  Mr.  Clarendon,  eagerly  and  feel- 
ingly. 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  the  physician.  "  Mental  trouble,  how- 
ever, I  am  inclined  to  think,  has  been  the  primary  cause  of 
this  malady.  How  has  she  lived  of  late,  and  what  have  been 
her  habits  ?" 


Isoea's    Child.  379 

"  Her  life  has  been  secluded,  without  society  or  exercise,  and 
she  has  been  much  devoted  to  books  and  music." 

**  Are  you  sure  that  no  peculiar  anxiety  has  been  preying 
upon  her  mind  ?  The  activity  of  her  brain  has,  perhaps,  been 
too  great  for  the  strength  of  her  body.  Proper  regimen, 
suitable  diet,  and  an  entire  change  of  scene  and  associations, 
may  restore  her,  if  the  malady  is  not  hereditary.  As  you 
seem  opposed  to  my  plan  I  will  try  yours,  and  devote  myself  to 
her  exclusively." 

"  Only  cure  her,  doctor,  and  you  may  name  your  own  reward. 
You  have  seen  her  before,  and  are  aware  from  whence  she 
came  to  me.  You  must,  too,  know  the  painful  anxiety  I  feel, 
for  from  a  child  she  has  been  much  under  my  care." 

"  I  was,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  at  the  death-bed  of  her 
mother,  and  a  more  interesting  patient  I  never  had.  She 
excited  my  sympathy  as  much  as  does  your  lovely  ward  in  her 
melancholy  situation  ;  and.  Clarendon,  singular  revelations  that 
death-bed  brought  to  light,  which  to  me  were  confidential. 
They  can  never  be  imparted  to  any  one  but  the  man  she  mar- 
ries." 

"  Not  previous  to  her  marriage,  doctor,  should  that  ever  take 
place  ?" 

"  No  ;  they  w^ill  die  with  me  if  the  daughter  of  Isora  Gio- 
canti  remains  unwedded.  How  deeply  that  fond  mother  felt 
for  her  child  to  be  left  orphaned  and  desolate,  no  one,  but  one 
so  situated,  I  suppose,  can  ever  reahze.  Mrs.  Islington,  as  she 
was  called,  was  a  woman  of  exquisite  sensibility,  and  had  you 
not  taken  the  little  one  for  which  she  suffered,  I  should  have 
been  her  guardian,  out  of  pity  for  the  mother." 

"  Would  to  God  you  had,"  murmured  Clarendon,  inau- 
dibly. 

"But,"  continued  the  doctor,  "when  I  heard  your  words  of 
comfort,  and  witnessed  the  fervor  of  the  act,  as  you  promised 
to  guard  and  protect  the  little  Flora,  I  was  struck  with  the 
generous  words  you  uttered,  and  since  then  I  have  ever  taken 
an  interest  in  your  career  and  hers.  Pardon  me,  Clarendon, 
but  I  fear  this  child  has  loved  you." 

"  Do  you  think  that  she  will  ever  recover  ?"  replied  Claren- 
don, with  agitation. 

"  We  will  use  our  best  efforts.  Such  minds,  such  tempera- 
ments, are  most  apt  to  wander  under  excitement  of  intense  feel- 
iog.     But  had  she  led  a  different  life,  this  might  not  hava 


380  Isora's    Chilp. 

occurred.  Her  soul  has  fed  upon  its  own  bright  fires,  until  it 
has  consumed  her  reason.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  assist  me  in 
her  removal." 

"No,  I  cannot,"  replied  Mr.  Clarendon,  "did  5'ou  think  it 
best  ;  but  should  any  amendment  take  place,  send  for  me 
immediately." 

"  Yes,  when  she  is  entirely  restored,  but  not  before.  From 
my  experience  with  such  patients,  I  have  great  hope  ;  but  here- 
after her  life  must  be  a  tranquil,  happy  one." 

"  Doctor,  if  I  can  make  it  so,  it  shall  be  !  The  cottage 
which  I  design  for  her  reception  is  now  in  readiness  to  receive 
her.  It  is  furnished  and  in  order.  Servants  are  there  established, 
and  a  nurse,  and  a  young  companion  who  is  familiar  with  such 
cases.  Here,  if  the  poor  girl  retains  her  old  love  of  luxury, 
she  will  be  gratified." 

After  the  foregoing  conversation,  Mr.  Clarendon  and  the 
doctor  parted  ;  the  former  in  a  gloomy  and  wretched  frame  of 
mind.  He  took  from  choice  the  circuit  that  carried  him  past 
the  humble  abode  from  which  he  had  brought  little  Flora  as  a 
child.  How  well  he  remembered,  as  he  approached  the  house, 
the  soft,  pale  face,  lighted  with  its  brilliant  eyes,  that  knelt 
against  the  window  seat,  awaiting  him  to  take  her  to  the  opera; 
but  more  vividly,  he  pictured  the  sorrowing  child  by  the  death- 
bed of  her  young  mother  ! — then,  too,  came  the  last  tragic 
scene,  when  he  vowed  to  guard  and  cherish  the  orphan,  ere  he 
tore  her  from  that  struggling,  dying  clasp,  and  bore  her  to  his 
home. 

But  these  pictures  vanished,  for  in  the  past  others  arose, 
dyed  in  rosier  hues,  when,  in  almost  Oriental  beauty,  the  once 
pale  child  reclined  on  his  conches  of  luxury,  a  thing  to  be  loved 
and  worshiped.  How  he  had  feasted  in  thought  upon  her 
transcendent  charms,  her  simple  loveliness,  when  with  him  she 
had  drunk  the  intoxication  of  love's  bewildering  cup. 

"Ah  !"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "how  have  I  abused  tho 
trusting  faith  of  her  girlhood  ! — how  have  I  cast  her  off  as  a 
worthless  bauble,  and  left  her  to  feed  upon  her  passionate 
dreams,  until  the  iron  has  entered  her  soul,  and  her  brain  has 
been  crazed  with  sorrow  !  Poor  Flora  !"  he  mused,  "  I  cannot 
even  look  upon  thee  now  !  It  would  madden  me  to  know  thee 
unconscious  of  my  presence  !" 

Mr.  Clarendon's  mind  was  harrowed  with  his  new  and  un- 
locked for  affliction.    He  proceeded  towards  the  cottage  in  the 


Isoka's    Child.  381 

outskrts  of  the  city,  which  he  had  destined  for  the  temporary 
abode  of  Flora.  It  was  eveuiug  as  he  entered  the  iron  enclo- 
sure, composed  of  the  costliest  fretwork,  in  which  stood  the 
minii^ture  gem  of  exquisite  architecture — a  flower-wreathed 
pile.  The  western  sky  brightened  the  pale,  pink  hue  of  the 
stone  edifice,  which  was  ornamented  by  balconies  shut  in  with 
framework  of  iron  ;  over  which,  crimson,  pink  and  white  roses 
climbed,  and  twined  themselves  in  and  out  of  the  delicate  rail- 
ings. 

From  the  roof,  hung  low  a  border  of  lacework,  correspond- 
ing with  the  open  iron  below,  upon  which  the  flowering  vines 
crept.,  and  hung  in  festoons  downward,  again  to  seek,  in  another 
archway,  the  fantastic  roof,  A  courtyard,  bordered  by  hawthorn 
and  boxwood,  and  covered  with  a  carpet  of  rich  velvety  green, 
was  enclosed  in  front  of  the  dwelling,  in  the  centre  of  which  a 
fountain  sent  high  its  rainbow  flood,  falling  over  the  sweet-scented 
grass  in  glittering  beauty.  The  glass  doors  of  the  dwelling  each 
opened  outwards  upon  a  mosaic-floored  piazza,  whose  pillars 
reflected  the  evening  sunlight  like  crystallized  marble.  Crim- 
son and  purple  bells,  in  which  humming  birds  nestled,  hung  in 
glossy-leaved  vines  about  their  fairy-like  supporters,  and  crept 
under  the  archway. 

The  fragrance  on  the  air  was  of  aromatic  sweetness,  and  the 
gushing  water,  as  it  came  dripping  and  cool  over  the  flowers 
and  grass,  refreshing  and  beautiful.  Shrubs  of  the  pomegranate, 
and  orange-blossoms  filled  the  balconies,  and  mingled  their 
perfume  with  the  roses. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  charmed  with  the  exterior  of  the  littk 
cottage,  and  went  within.  Here  the  most  delicate  luxury  })re- 
vailed.  The  soft,  subdued  light  that  came  through  the  stained 
glass  of  the  windows,  fell  on  the  flower-blossomiug  carpet,  and 
over  the  couches  of  rosewood  and  satin,  among  which  stood 
graceful  forms  of  statuary. 

Thus  lovely  was  the  pretty  spot  which  Mr.  Clarendon  sought 
for  Flora.  A  beautiful,  but  more  secluded  room  he  had  des- 
tined for  her  private  apartment,  where  musical  instruments  were 
placed,  and  objects  to  amuse  her  fancy.  He  knew  that  even  in 
her  derangement,  which  was  but  of  a  mild  and  partial  charac- 
ter, she  exhibited  her  tastes,  and  manifested  no  violence.  All 
had  been  done  that  a  princess  could  ask  for  ;  and  he  now 
turned  from  the  exquisite  cage,  and  sighed  heavily,  for  he 
thought  of  the  bright  plnmaged  bird  that  was  to  become,  he 


382  Isora's    Child. 

feared,  a  wild — if  softly  fluttering — occupant.  He  returned 
home,  lonely  and  miserable  ;  his  books  ceased  to  interest  hiiu, 
and  his  business  engagements  became  wearisome.  His  heart 
had  flown  back  to  the  poor  wandering  Flora,  and  he  felt  that 
life  was  worthless  to  him,  if  borne  down  by  the  consciousness 
that  he  had  wrecked  her  bright  intellect,  and  crushed  the  warm 
heart  that  was  filled  with  love  for  him. 

The  following  evening  he  again  sought  her  destined  asylum 
He  knew  that  she  was  then  to  take  possession  of  it,  with  hei 
physician  and  attendants.  He  came  to  see  that  all  was  in 
readiness  for  her  reception.  He  looked  with  anxiety  upon  the 
face  of  her  benevolent  nurse,  and  with  feelings  of  satisfaction 
upon  the  sweeter  one  of  the  young  girl  whom  he  had  engaged 
for  her  maid.  After  impressing  upon  them  earnestly  the  im- 
portance of  the  fulfillment  of  their  duty,  and  of  obedience  to 
the  orders  of  Dr.  Vale,  he  directed  tea  to  be  in  readiness,  and 
considered  what  delicacies  she  had  best  loved.  Thus  incon- 
siderate was  the  lover,  who  had  forgotten  that  her  physician 
might  interdict  all  that  he  might  procure  for  her. 

With  pleasure  he  had  surveyed  the  luxuriance  of  beautiful 
things  around  him,  and  sat  down  to  await  her  arrival.  He 
had,  for  a  moment,  forgotten  her  situation — but  suddenly  rose 
and  anxiously  paced  the  room.  The  strong  man  trembled  at 
the  dread  uncertainty  of  her  condition,  and  the  thought  that 
she  might  shun,  and,  perhaps,  hate  him,  agonized  and  dismayed 
him. 

But  while  he  meditated,  a  carriage  drove  to  the  gate.  He 
rose  to  leave,  but  again  turned.  Should  he  not  stop,  and  see 
his  own  work  ? — all  that  was  left  of  poor  Flora  !  HoptJ, 
again,  arose  in  his  heart.  "  Oh  !"  he  mused,  "may  I  not  be 
disappointed,  and  my  darling  seem  again  as  of  old.  I  will 
await  her.  I  will  see  her  if  but  at  a  distance."  He  felt  that 
he  could  not  leave  her  yet,  and  when  she  alighted,  his  heart 
leaped  with  joy.  He  stood  concealed  behind  a  curtain.  She 
entered  the  gate  on  the  arm  of  her  physician,  and  walked  up 
the  court-yard,  apparently  delighted.  He  might  have  wished 
her  less  gay.  She  wandered  among  the  flowers,  and  taking 
off  her  bonnet,  filled  the  crown  with  them,  wiiile  she  sang  the 
song  he  loved. 

Mr.  Clarendon  watched  the  glance  of  her  eye,  as  it  fired 
and  softened  alternately  ;  and  he  thought  that  he  had  ne\er 
seen  her  appear  more  rational.     His  heart  had  thrilled  with 


Isora's    Child.  383 

hope.  She  looked  up  as  she  entered.  He  caught  her  owq 
lovely  smile.     In  fancy,  she  was  again  his  petted  Elora. 

"  Will  you  come  in  now?"  said  Dr.  Yale. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Flora.  "Shall  we  stay  to  tea  ?"  Her  face 
brighiened  with  seeming  intelligence,  her  voice  was  sweet  and 
musical,  as  when  she  had  sang  to  him  in  her  city  home.  He 
started  from  behind  the  curtain,  and  coming  forward,  caught 
her  hand,  and  called  her  his  "  dear  Flora."  The  poor  girl 
opened  wide  her  eyes,  and  with  a  shudder,  cried,  while  the 
i-olor  left  her  cheeks  and  lips,  "  Oh  I  take  me  away — it  is  lie  ! 
Will  he  kill  me  ?  Oh,  take  me  and  hide  me."  The  look  of 
terror  and  wildness  which  Flora  gave  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  the 
appeal  of  her  words  to  him  on  whose  arm  she  leaned,  and 
her  aversion  to  himself,  caused  in  him  a  feeling  of  faintness. 
He  fled  from  the  cottage  miserable,  and  without  hope. 

His  own  words,  "  I  will  keep  the  trust,"  again  sung  like  a 
chime  of  funeral  knells  on  his  ear,  and  in  his  fitful  slumbers, 
that  night,  an  angel  form  seemed  near  him,  saying,  "  Where  is 
my  child  ?  and  what  is  her  fate  ?"  He  awoke  a  deeply- 
sorrowing  man.  When  Mrs.  Linden  had  lured  her  from  him, 
anger  had  mingled  with  his  disappointed  passion,  and  he  had 
long  the  hope  in  his  heart,  that  she  would  return  to  him,  peni- 
tent for  her  desertion.  But  now,  as  he  dispassionately, 
impartially  viewed  his  course  towards  Flora,  and  his  wander- 
ing from  her,  in  his  ambition  to  marry  Cora  Livingston,  he 
felt  that  his  punishment  had  been  light — for  what  untold  sor- 
row had  he  not  brought  upon  her  ! 

He  daily  received  news  respecting  her  health,  both  physical 
and  mental,  and  was  alternately  made  sad  or  happy,  as  trie 
reports  fluctuated.  Sometimes  they  said  that  she  played, 
laui;hed,  and  sung — and  then,  that  she  sat  moodily  alone,  and 
wept,  and  that  her  chief  desire  was  to  escape  and  run  away 
from  her  confinement.  How  fully  Mr.  Clarendon  now  realized 
the  utter  worthlessness  of  wealth,  or  fame,  to  bring  happiness 
to  his  heart  ;  for  what  could  gifts  of  fortune,  or  laurels  of 
victory,  efiect  to  restore  to  him  his  gifted  Flora.  She  was  in 
the  enjoyment  of  delicious  fragrance,  her  ear  lulled  by  music 
— all  that  Circe  could  have  devised  was  presented  her  as  a 
feast.  He  had  placed  her  in  a  flower-wreathed  bower,  and 
given  her  all  but  liberty.  Yet  she  spurned  the  whole-"She 
would  be  free  !  Her  pure  spirit  would  shake  off  its  load,  and 
unencumbered,  regain  its  throne,  the  seat  of  reason. 


384:  Isoea's    Child. 

Louis  Clarendon  felt  that  he  could  sacrifice  his  proud 
fortune,  to  its  last  farthing,  to  restore  her,  and  bring  her  back 
to  her  clear  brilliancy  of  mind.  But  time  passed  on,  while  he 
sought,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  daily  avocation,  and  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  Cora's  society,  for  whom  he  now  felt  a  brother's 
interest,  to  drive  away  his  hours  of  painful  suspense. 

He  pondered  much  on  the  remarks  dropped  by  Dr.  Yale. 
What  secrets  could  the  dying  mother  have  imparted  to  him  ? 
Was  he  never  to  know  her  history,  unless  he  married  her 
daughter,  now  a  poor,  insane  girl  ?  How  different  had  been 
his  dreams  of  a  wife  ?  High  in  station,  proud  in  his  conscious- 
ness of  position  and  wealth,  with  the  requisite  resources  to 
command  all  that  he  desired  ;  could  he,  in  thought,  even  so 
descend  as  to  seek  one  unknown,  unhcuored,  and  even  if 
restored,  uneducated  for  the  world  in  which  he  shone  conspi- 
cuous. He  began  to  realize  how  much  the  course  he  had 
pursued  with  her,  had  tended  to  make  her  a  recluse — how  but 
for  his  jealous  adoration,  she  might  have  imbibed  a  taste  for 
society,  and  thought  have  preyed  less  upon  her  mind.  The 
many  invitations  which  he  had  universally  discarded  for  his 
lovely  ward,  now  rose  up  before  him,  reproaching  him  for  his 
selfishness,  as  doing  injustice  to  her,  and  unfitting  her  for  the 
station  which  her  education  and  his  guardianship  had  entitled 
her.  Who,  in  the  wide  world,  was  his  query,  had  she  known 
excepting  himself  and  her  governess  ?  Why,  he  asked  him- 
self, had  he  refused  her  companionship  with  her  old  school- 
mates, many  of  whom  she  had  loved,  while  alone,  her  imagi- 
nation had  fed,  in  her  leisure  hours,  upon  the  allurhig  poetry 
and  pernicious  fiction  which  he  had  furnished  her,  until  the 
winged  hours  came,  that  made  her  still  a  prisoner — his  own 
bright  captive  bird.  "  Why,"  he  continued,  '*  had  he  done 
this,  and  for  what  generous  motive  had  he  so  guarded  the 
child  of  his  adoption  ?  Conscience  made  its  stinging  reply, 
and  the  selfishness  that  had  governed  his  course,  was  to  him 
now  fully  apparent. 

Three  months  had  flown,  when  Mr.  Clarendon  received  from 
Dr.  Yale  a  note  proclaiming  the  entire  restoration  of  his 
patient.  The  latter  informed  him,  that,  for  several  weeks,  she 
iiad  been  rational,  and  that  he  had  told  her  that  during 
severe  illness,  she  had  been  placed  under  his  charge  at  his  own 
house.  He  informed  him  that  Flora's  inquiries  had  been 
numerous,  and  that  for  a  long  time  she  was  anxious  about  the 


Isoea's    Child.  385 

absence  of  Mrs.  Linden,  but  that  she  had  at  last  submitted 
passively  to  her  fate,  when  assured  that  all  was  right,  and  that 
she  might  seek  her  own  support  on  her  recovery. 

The  Doctor  informed  Mr.  Clarendon  that  his  interdiction  of 
books  had  been  a  trial  to  her.  That  she  appeared  most  cheer- 
ful during  the  long  drives  with  him  into  the  country,  that  she 
seemed  to  remember  having  seen  him  as  in  a  dream,  and  that 
he  had  acquired  a  happy  influence  over  her. 

He  further  communicated  to  Mr,  Clarendon  that  he  had 
asked  her  if  she  had  no  wish  to  see  her  old  guardian,  and  she 
had  expressed  so  much  f&eling  at  the  question,  that  at  first  he 
was  alarmed  ;  but  he  could  not  have  a  better  test  of  her  entire 
restoration  than  to  visit  her,  though  he  should  enjoin  the  most 
perfect  quiet  and  freedom  from  exciting  conversation. 

With  joy,  Mr.  Clarendon  obeyed  the  summons.  As  he 
approached  the  cottage,  he  saw  Flora  sitting  in  the  doorway. 
She  had  just  returned  from  her  drive,  and  was  picking  over 
5ome  bunches  of  grapes. 

The  Doctor  called  her  within,  and  said,  "  A.  friend  is  coming 
to  see  you.     Will  you  be  glad  to  see  him  ?" 

"  Have  I  any  but  you  ?"  she  said,  plaintively. 

"  Why,  surely,  you  will  be  glad  to  see  your  guardian,"  the 
Doctor  replied. 

Flora  looked  up  with  a  reproachful  glance,  that  spoke 
eloquently  the  feelings  that  the  remembrance  awakened  ;  but 
on  the  instant  Mr.  Clarendon  took  her  hand  with  an  effort  at 
calmness,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  better.  Flora." 

With  a  kindling  blush,  she  said,  "  Have  the  times  of 
Aladdin  returned  ?  Have  I  found  his  lamp,  and  now  the 
wizard  that  has  transported  me  into  this  fairy  'palace?'" 
The  tone  was  sweet  and  half  playful  in  which  these  words  were 
uttered.     With  delight,  the  visitor  replied  : 

"  Yes,  Flora,  I  am  the  magician.'* 

A  glow  again  came  upon  her  cheek,  while  half  timidly  she 
looked  on  the  carpet,  bewildered. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  the  Doctor's  cottage  ?"  said  Mr. 
Clarendon. 

Flora  looked  up,  and  with  a  melancholy  smile,  replied,  "  It 
is  beautiful,  and  he  is  very  kind,"  but  turning  upon  the  Doctor, 
she  said,  "  but  there  is  no  library  here."  The  look  was 
reproachful  but  pleasant. 

n 


386  Isora's    Child. 

"  Yet  we  can  enjoy  the  book  of  Nature,  can  we  not,  Flora  ?" 
said  the  Doctor,  "  and  by  and  by  you  shall  have  the  rest." 

"  How  is  Sappho  ?"  said  Flora,  with  her  eyes  still  averted. 

"  He  is  well,  Flora.  Shall  I  bring  him  here  ?"  replied  Mr. 
Clarendon. 

'*  Dear  old  dog  !"  said  Flora.     "  Does  he  remember  me  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  "  you  must  see  him,  cer- 
tainly." 

Flora,  with  her  old  confiding  expression,  said,  "  I  don't 
know — my  life  has  many  magical  scenes,  but  I  try  not  to 
be  surprised — now  that  I  have  seen  you,  it  would  not  be 
strange  to  see  old  Sap})ho  ;  but  forgive  me,  Doctor,  I  feel 
sometimes  as  if  1  ought  to  go — home." 

The  physician,  seeing  her  so  calm,  and  so  entirely  rational, 
arose  and  left  her  with  her  guardian.  As  the  door  closed 
upon  the  Doctor,  Flora  said,  while  she  turned  her  full  eyes 
upon  his  face,  "  You  will  tell  me — you  won't  deceive  me — 
where  am  I  ?  Why  am  I  here  in  this  beautiful  place,  away 
from  Mrs.  Linden  ?" 

"  You  were  brought  here  to  be  placed  under  the  Doctor's 
care,  Flora,  while  you  were  ill.     Mrs.  Linden  has  gone  away." 

'*  And  did  she  bid  me  come  here  and  see  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  Flora,  she  placed  you  under  mine  and  the  Doctor's 
care." 

A  look  of  confiding  sweetness  played  over  the  features  of 
Flora.  With  her  own  irresistible  manner,  she  put  her  hand  in 
bis,  who  sought  it,  and  said,  "  I  will  then  trust,  as  she  has 
trusted  me.  God  never  forsakes  those  who  do.  But,  is  this 
my  home  ?" 

"  Until  we  find  another  that  you  like  better,"  said  Mr. 
Clarendon  cautiously.  "Why  do  you  put  your  hand  to  your 
forehead.     Does  your  headache  ?" 

"  Oh  I  no — my  hair  was  in  my  eyes.  You  seem  anxious — 
I  am  quite  well,  but  vou  are  not — vou  are  changed — and  look 
ill." 

"Do  I  ?  talk  to  me  then,  and  I  shall  feel  better."  Flora 
looked  up  at  her  guardian.  He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  clear 
and  full  of  beamhig  intelligence. 

'•Will  you  tell  me,"  he  continued,  "  the  home  that  you  have 
loved  best,  since  your  mother  died  ?" 

Sadness  came  like  a  pall  over  her  features,  while  Flora 
replied,     "That  home  can  neve-r  be  more  one  to  me.     When  I 


Isoka's    Child.  387 

am  well,  I  will  try  to  do  something  to  support  myself."  As 
Flora  ceased  speaking,  Mr.  Clarendon  went  suddenly  from  the 
apartment,  and  sought  Dr.  Yale.  In  deep  and  earnest  conver- 
sation they  continued  engaged  for  a  length  of  time,  when  he 
returned  to  Flora.  She  received  him  with  sweet  calmness. 
He  assured  himself  by  keen  observation,  that  her  muid  was 
restored  to  its  true  balance,  and  that  at  no  period  of  her  life, 
had  she  been  more  rational.  He  talked  with  her  cheerfully 
and  affectionately  ;  and  Flora  listened  now  timidly,  and  then 
throwing  off  her  reserve,  becoming  playful  and  familiar.  Still 
there  was  for  t'ie  most  time  an  avoidance  of  the  eye  of  her 
guardian,  and  if  he  spoke  to  her,  a  color  evanescent  and  bril- 
liant kindled  on  her  cheek.  Her  long  fringed  lashes  drooped 
heavily,  and  when  she  looked  up,  her  eyes  were  melting  and 
lustrous.  Her  physician  anxiously  watched  her,  and  saw  the 
intense  feeling  excited  by  the  presence  of  her  guardian. 

After  tea  he  again  conversed  alone  with  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"I  have  discovered,"  said  he,  "in  my  patient  to  day,  that 
which  forbids  your  again  visiting  her — that  which  must  either 
keep  you  for  ever  from  her,  or  will  compel  you  to  cherish  her 
for  life.  I  offer  to  take  her  to  my  own  home,  for  her  poor 
mother's  sake  to  guard  her,  for  I  doubt  your  firm  resolution  to 
make  reparation  for  the  WTong  which  perhaps  you  have  inno- 
cently occasioned  her." 

"  Why  do  you  doubt  me,  Doctor  ?  I  only  await  your  per- 
mission to  offer  her  my  hand,  and  tenderly  to  cherish  her  as 
my  wife." 

"  But,  Clarendon,  this  is  a  sacrifice  for  you— beautiful,  lovely 
as  she  is.  Supposing  her  parentage  exceptionable,  and  that 
when  she  learns  the  history  of  her  mother,  and  the  fate  of  her 
father— she  is  by  this  intelligence  again  bereft  of  reason." 

"  I  have  thought  of  every  objection  to  a  marriage  with 
Flora,  but  love  has  conquered  them  all.  The  poor  child  is  very 
dear  to  me,  and  to-night,  if  I  have  her  consent  and  yours,  I 
will  marry  her." 

"To-night!  Clarendon?" 

*'  Why  should  I  delay,  provided  she  consents." 

"Go  to  her,  then,"  said  the  Doctor,  "and  may  God  speed 
you." 

Mr.  Clarendon  found  Flora  at  her  piano,  and  singing  He 
had  not  heard  her  since  those  delicious  hours  that  he  never 
wearied  iu  recalling.     He  approached  her,  and  said  tenderly, 


388  Isora's    Child. 

"  Does  not  this  song  make  you  think  of  the  hours  in  the  library 
— when  we  loved  each  other  so  .well  ?" 

Soft  and  eloquent  were  her  tones  in  reply.  "  Those  hours, 
I  have  long  tried  to  chase  from. memory.  There  might  have 
been  such  in  flowery  Eden,  but  God  did  not  will  that  we 
all  should  have  a  Paradise  on  earth.  When  He  shut  us  out, 
He  left  us  a  narrow  and  a  strait  path  to  climb  to  Heaven. 
Shall  we  then  mourn  if  we  are  denied  one  here  ?" 

"  But  it  was  sin  that  excluded  the  first  tenants  of  Eden,  and 
by  God's  help  we  will  shut  the  door  on  our  enemy.  Would 
you  not  go  to  that  home  where  you  were  happy  once,  if  it  was 
yours  with  him  you  alone  loved — as  your  guardian's  wife,  bear- 
ing his  name,  and  sharing  his  fate  through  life  ?" 

The  head  of  Flora  sunk  in  strange  bewilderment.  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon feared  that  he  had  said  too  much,  and  yet  he  had 
resolved  to  take  the  wandering  Flora  to  his  heart,  and  make 
her  his  own,  for  weal  or  woe.  She  did  not  speak,  and  he  went 
on, — "  We  have  long  loved  each  other,  and  you  wandered  in 
your  angel  purity  from  me,  and  it  was  well,  for  then,  I  was 
not  worthy  of  you  ;  bat  in  all  the  wide  world,  I  have  found  no 
one  so  sweet,  so  enchanting,  so  good  and  lovely  as  my  Flora, 
no  one  that  I  would  so  soon  make  my  own  dear  wife.  Oh, 
come  then  to  the  heart  that  adores  you — come  and  tell  me, 
that  without  delay,  we  may  be  united." 

*•  But — but,"  said  the  breathless  girl  as  she  threw  herself 
into  the  arms  of  her  guardian,  "  Will  you  marry  me — and 
not  that  proud,  beautiful  lady  that  you  saw  abroad  ?  " 

"  Flora,  I  fancied  her,  and  now  I  know  why  it  was — she 
was  much  like  you." 

"  Ah  !  but  she  was  bred  for  the  world,  in  which  poor  Flora 
would  be  lost.  1  am  so  timid,  so  afraid  of  strangers — and  then 
you  will  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  stimulus  of  those  words  to  you, 
dear  Flora,  to  make  you  study  when  a  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  I  am  too  old  now,  to  learn  the  ways  of  the 
world  ;  I  am  nineteen,  and  now  as  much  a  novice  as  if  a  clois- 
ter had  been  my  home  ;  but  I  read  about  that  world  in  books, 
and  I  have  no  desire  to  enter  it." 

*'  Then,  let  me  be  your  world,  my  darling  ;  you  will  then  be 
the  more  to  me,  if  the  less  to  others.  You  are  all  I  ask— but 
my  wife." 

"  And  shall  I  live  in  your  beautiful  house,  and  sit  at  your 


Isora's    Child.  389 

table,  and  read  and  sing  to  yon,  and  fan  you  when  you  sleep — 
and  may  I  love  you,  and  you  love  me,  and  will  it  be  all  right, 
and  no  one  else — no  beautiful  court  belle  ever  take  ray  place  ? 
Oh,  no,  no — this  is  more  than  Heaven  ordained  for  me — I  am 
but  dreaming" 

Flora's  head  was  on  her  guardian's  shoulder — he  checked 
the  low  utterance  of  her  words — the  lover  vowed  that  ere  the 
moon  had  risen,  she  should  be  his  bride. 

He  left  her,  and  expressed  to  Dr.  Yale  his  wish  that  a  cler- 
gyman should  be  summoned. 

"  Is  this  to  be  a  private  ceremony  ?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  It  is.  Whether  the  world  knows  it  or  not,  is  to  me  a  mat- 
ter of  indifference  ;  I  shall  immediately  travel  with  Flora,  and 
leave  my  friends  to  enjoy  the  nine  days'  wonder." 

"  Flora,"  said  he,  returning,  '*  I  have  sent  for  a  clergyman 
Is  there  any  preparation  you  wish  made  ?" 

"This  is  so  sudden  !"  said  the  excited  girl,  "  I  wish  Airs. 
Linden  was  here." 

"  Will  you  ever  have  as  much  confidence  in  me,  as  you  have 
in  her.  Flora  ?" 

"  She  must  have  inspired  a  great  deal,  when  she  could  have 
ever  taken  me  from  you,"  said  the  fond  girl,  passionately. 
"  Ah,  I  owe  her  much — but  she  would  let  me  love  you  now," 

**  But,  supposing  she  was  to  forbid  your  being  mine,  and 
should  try  to  take  you  from  me  ?" 

Flora  clung  to  the  shoulder  of  her  guardian,  and  whispered, 
"  God  could  only  do  that  ;  for  I  am  to  be  your  wedded  wife." 

"  And  now,  dear  one  ?" 

"  Let  me  change  my  dress — black  does  not  become  a  bride.'^ 

"  Go,  go.  Flora,  but  come  back  soon." 

Flora  went  to  her  chamber,  and  as  she  sought  the  bridal 
robes  that  in  her  insane  delusion  she  had  made,  her  nurses  and 
friends  screamed  in  wild  alarm  for  her  physician,  when  low 
whisperings  went  on  : 

'*  Indulge  her,"  said  the  Doctor,  enjoying  the  deception  he  was 
practicing  on  her  kind  friends,  whose  tears  flowed  as  they  wit- 
nessed her  calm  joy,  as  she  stood  to  be  arrayed  for  her  nuptials. 

Around  her  graceful  form  floated  the  dress  of  airy  richness, 
which  Mrs.  Linden  had  ordered  made  to  gratify  her  wish. 
With  sad  feelings  her  attendants  smoothed  down  its  fleecy 
folds,  and  on  her  neck  clasped  a  pearl  necklace.  She  cast  a 
look  at  the  loveliness  of  her  figure,  and  at  the  soft  white  arms 


390  IsopwA's    Child. 

raised  above  her  head  in  the  arrangement  of  a  falling  braid, 
and  bade  Nelly  adjust  the  long  gossamer  veil,  and  the  wreath 
of  fresh  orange  buds,  which  Mr.  Clarendon  had  gathered  and 
twined  for  her.  Low  on  the  soft  brow  of  the  queen-like  girl, 
lay  the  fragrant  flowers,  and  on  her  bosom  a  white  rose,  fresh 
as  though  it  opened  there. 

"  Are  you  ready.  Flora  ?"  said  Dr.  Yale,  as  he  came  into  her 
room,  and  tenderly  viewed  her.  The  color  had  now  fled  from 
her  mellow  cheek,  and  her  drooping  eyes  fell  as  she  came  forth 
on  the  arm  of  her  physician  to  meet  her  destined  husband. 

Mr.  Clarendon  rose  and  met  her,  and  drew  her  arm  within 
his. 

"This  is  hardly  honorable,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  for  you  to 
purloin  my  patient,  but  I  resign  her  hopefully  ;  and  what  does 
Flora  say  ?"  he  continued. 

"  She  can  only  trust  and  hope,"  said  the  fond  girl; 

"May  God  enable  me  to  keep  the  trust,''^  was  the  low 
response.  Low  and  fervently  were  the  responses  murmured  by 
each  subdued  voice,  and  when  the  ring  encircled  the  little 
snowy  finger  of  the  bride,  her  hand  for  a  moment  trembled  in 
the  bridegroom's  clasp.  Together  they  knelt  and,  after  the 
clergyman,  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

The  hands  of  Louis  Clarendon  and  his  lovely  bride  were  at 
last  united  in  that  sacred  union  which  proclaimed  them  in  the 
holy  ordinance  of  matrimony,  man  and  wife. 

Thus  in  the  little  cottage  bower,  while  the  full  moon  shone 
down  upon  the  snowy  wreathed  bride,  and  lighted  her  starry 
eyes  with  a  more  holy  subdued  light,  the  weary-hearted  had 
found  a  home  on  the  breast  she  had  so  long  loved,  and  the 
erring,  wandering  lover  peace,  in  the  fulfillment  of  his  vows  to 
the  dying  mother  and  her  child. 


Is  oka's    Child.  391 


CHAPTEll     XXVI. 

"  The  bounding,  shining,  glorious  sea! 
With  ecstasy,  I  gaze  on  thee, 
And  as  I  gaze,  thy  billows'  roll 
Wakes  the  deep  feelings  of  my  soul !" 

fl^HE  following  day  Mr.  Clarendon  inquired  of  the  Doctor,  if 
1  he  considered  Flora  permanently  cured  of  her  malady. 
*'  I  think,"  he  replied,  "  that  while  she  is  happy,  and  her  mind 
at  rest,  there  is  no  danger  of  a  return  of  her  late  affliction,  but 
I  should  fear  the  effect  of  much  trouble." 

"  She  is  now  cheerful,"  replied  Mr.  Clarendon,  "  and  I  will 
not  anticipate  a  change.  Flora  will  remain  here  for  several 
days,  when  we  will  travel." 

"  You  will  now  expect  the  history  which  I  promised  to  the 
husband  of  Flora  ?" 

"  No,  doctor,  I  wish  to  hear  or  know  nothing  more.  Let 
darkness  shroud  the  mystery  of  her  mother's  life,  I  mean 
that  her  child's  shall  be  one  of  sunshine  and  joy.  I  have 
chosen  her  from  the  world,  where,  like  a  hidden  flower,  she 
has  bloomed.  I  have  separated  her  from  the  past,  and 
with  the  present  I  am  content.  You  will  excuse  my  brief 
interview." 

Mr.  Clarendon  parted  with  the  doctor,  and  sought  Flora, 
whom  he  found  looking  out  upon  the  fountain,  her  face  full  of 
tranquil  joy.     As  he  approached  her,  he  said,  playfully, 

"  I  have  afflicting  news  for  you.  You  are  to  be  resigned 
into  the  hands  of  some  French  nwdistes,  until  your  apparel  is 
made  ready  for  our  journey.  This  will  be  a  tiresome  business., 
won't  it,  pet  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  important  science,  but  suppose  I 
must  be  submissive." 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  speedily  rescued.  I  think  it  doubtful 
if  they  improve  you.  I  wonder  how  such  a  novice  will  look 
with  all  the  gilding  of  fashion's  adorning." 


39i]  Isora's    Child. 

"  You  seera  to  think  I  need  the  experiment/'  replied  Flora, 
with  a  half  smile. 

"  The  brightest  birds  do  not  despise  their  plumage.  My 
wife  will  be  a  conspicuous  personage — don't  you  know 
this  ?" 

"  But  when  we  are  in  our  own  dear  home,"  said  Flora, 
winningly,  "  you  will  not  care  what  the  world  thinks,  but 
let  me  be  as  free  from  all  restraint  and  ceremony,  as  when  I 
was  nothing  but  little  Flory." 

**  May  you  be  always  as  trustful  and  loving,"  said  the 
enamored  husband,  ''and  they  may  dress  you  like  a  Quakeress. 
I  have  something  for  your  bridal  gift.''  Mr.  Clarendon 
opened  a  small  case,  and  drew  forth  some  ornaments  of 
pearls. 

"  My  dear  guardian  I  how  beautiful  !  They  are  gems  of 
the  ocean." 

"  Guardian  !  You  will  always  be  a  child,  Flora.  You  are 
too  simple  for  anything  but  wild  flowers.  Those  white  jessa- 
mine stars  would  look  pretty  in  your  jetty  tresses  ;  better,  I 
believe,  than  jewels.  I  suppose,  for  custom's  sake,  we  must 
make  ourselves  uncomfortable  awhile,  when  we  will  come 
home  and  be  domestic.     I  wish  we  were  there  now." 

"  I  have  longed  to  see  the  ocean,  since  I  crossed  it  when  a 
child,"  said  Flora,  playing  with  her  pearls. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  the  beach  will  be  dull  for  you.  Every- 
body is  leaving,  or  has  left." 

"  But  the  ocean  is  still  there,  and" 

'*  Your  lord  and  master  will  be — that's  what  you  meant  to 
say — no  affectation,  Flora." 

"  I  wish  we  could  go  where  there  was  not  much  company." 

"  Where  you  could  take  up  a  residence  like  a  soldier-crab 
on  the  beach.  Well,  I  like  a  dash  of  the  foaming  brine 
myself,  upon  a  hot  August  day,  but  I  cannot  stay  long  on  a 
lonely  beach,  even  with  you.  I  shall  be  so  proud  of  my  young 
wife,  I  shall  want  to  exhibit  her." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  said  the  shrinking  Flora. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  keep  you  a  prisoner  ?  For  my  sake, 
you  will  be  civil  to  my  friends.  Don't  fear  that  you  shall  be 
annoyed." 

Thus  passed  away  the  morning.  Mr.  Clarendon  had  been 
sought  for  at  his  office,  and  Miss  Dorothy  Benson  had  mar« 
veiled  much  at  his  prolonged  absence. 


Isoka's    Child.  393 

"  The  hour  for  dining  came,  and  the  bridegroom  had  not 
yet  returned  to  his  city  mansion.  Little  the  maiden  spinster 
knew  of  the  affliction  in  store  for  her  ! — that  privately  she 
had  been  dethroned,  and  that  the  fair  usurper  of  her  long- 
established  dominion,  was,  ere  long,  to  appear  in  her  young 
beauty,  as  mistress  of  her  master's  home.  Poor  Dorothy  ! 
thy  trials  are  to  come;  and  sweet  novice,  Flora — how  wilt  thou 
contend  with  the  self-willed  and  long-indulged  housekeeper  ? 
Let  us  see.  She  is  thinking  little  of  such  trials  now.  In  the 
midst  of  flashing,  gorgeous  silks,  costly  laces,  and  fabrics  airy 
as  the  wild  free  grace  of  her  motion,  she  stands  a  victim  to 
the  goddess  Fashion. 

Not  since  she  came  as  a  school-girl,  to  the  home  where  she 
remained  an  inmate  during  her  guardian's  absence,  had  Flora 
cast  a  thought  upon  her  apparel  ;  but  now,  to  please  her 
husband,  her  eyes  wander  over  the  rich  hues  of  coloring, 
while  she  listens  with  patience  to  the  criticisms  of  her  dress- 
maker, and  stands,  she  deems,  a  martyr,  to  the  fitting  of  her 
new  robes. 

That  she  would  "  look  divinely,"  as  madame  says,  in  the 
rich,  sable  folds  of  velvet  displayed  ;  and  like  something 
"  celestial,"  in  the  exquisite  Brussels  point  ;  and  like  a  "  per- 
fect love,"  in  the  dark-hued  brocade.  Flora  did  not  believe. 
She  had  been  unaccustomed  to  flattery,  and  thought  she  was 
in  the  hand  of  strange,  fussy  people,  and  heartily  wished  that 
she  was  released,  and  left  to  rational  enjoyment.  But  when  a 
dainty  Parisian  exhibited  to  her  dazzled  eye  the  wave  of  zephyr- 
like feathers,  and  the  glitter  of  bouquets — clusters  of  rainbow 
light,  her  eyes  wandered  from  the  pearly  gauze  and  emerald 
satin,  to  the  new  display.  She  wondered  if  these  things  were 
real,  and  if  they  would  dress  her  in  grass  and  wheat-ears,  more 
green  and  golden  than  she  had  ever  seen  ;  if  such  roses  and 
lilies  were  essential  to  a  bride's  apparel,  and  if  she  would  look 
better,  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband,  lighted  up  with  glittering 
stones.  They  were  magically  beautiful,  she  thought,  for  they 
made  her  think  of  the  country,  with  its  bending  grass,  and 
bright-hued  leaves  ;  but  there  seemed  no  fragrance  in  these 
flowers,  though  full  of  tints  that  the  sunset  sky  might 
wear. 

Flora  looked  into  the  mirror,  and  saw  the  diamond  light  of 
her  eyes,  the  gleam  of  her  hair,  to  which  the  morning  sunbeams 
lent  the  purple  light  of  a  bird's  jetty  wing,  and  felt  that  God 

17* 


394  Isoka's    Child. 

had  not  made  her  a  doll  for  the  amusement-  of  lookers-on,  and 
she  turned  away  from  the  parade  and  show  sickened — she  had 
no  taste,  or  heart  for  it. 

But  Flora  must  be  pardoned  by  her  fair  sisterhood,  those 
radiant  belles,  who  revel  in  shop  glories,  whose  eyes  borrow 
fresher  lig'ht  from  a  bouquet  of  cambric  fuschias,  beaded  with 
glass  rubies,  from  a  garland  of  emerald-tinted  leaves,  shining 
with  silver  foil,  than  at  the  sight  of  the  dewiest  lily  that  ever 
hid  in  its  mossy  covert,  or  in  its  broad  leaf  nested  with  sweetest 
fragrance.  She  must  be  forgiven  for  her  lack  of  taste  and 
appreciation  of  those  adornments  which  add  so  much  to  the 
ball-room  beauty,  for  she  had  been  from  a  school-girl  a  recluse, 
and  from  a  child  a  rare  and  singular  being.  But  her  husband 
had  now  given  directions  for  a  costly  apparel  for  his  bride,  such 
as  corresponded  with  her  position. 

80  with  dresses,  and  all  the  tedious  discussion,  to  which  she 
was  obliged  to  listen,  and  the  society  of  her  husband,  the  time 
passed,  until  Flora  at  last  stepped  into  her  own  beautiful  car- 
riage, and  from  the  pale-pink  cottage,  to  which  she  had  uncon- 
sciously been  borne  in  her  delirium,  she  was  carried  forth  a 
happv,  loving  bride. 

Tiie  morning  was  one  of  misty  splendor.  The  softest  breath 
of  October  just  lifted  the  hair  from  the  brow  of  the  young  wife, 
and  freshened  the  red  on  her  coral  lip,  while  the  color  that 
liept  hiding  itself,  as  her  spirit  trembled,  now  spread  over  her 
cheek,  in  a  glow  of  faint  crimson,  to  agaia  pass  away,  leaving 
her  face  almost  pale. 

As  in  a  font  of  deep  waters,  feeling  seemed  sleeping  in  her 
breast,  to  well  up,  and  gush  forth  as  the  under  current  swelled 
and  heaved  with  its  stirred  depths.  But  to-day,  each  wavelet 
was  becalmed  ;  serene  as  a  summer  lake,  her  bosom  rose  and 
fell,  while  the  peace  of  an  infant's  sleep  seemed  reposing  at  her 
heart. 

Mr.  Clarendon  took  from  his  wife's  hand  a  bunch  of  dripping 
flowers  that  she  had  gathered  from  under  the  spray  of  the 
fountain,  and  shaking  the  rain  from  its  petals,  again  replaced  it 
ill  her  hands.  Throwing  from  the  window  those  most  wet,  he 
said, —  '^ 

"  Did  you  pick  these  to  remember  our  first  bridal  home  V' 

''  Yes,"  said  the  new  wife  ;  "  they  seemed  to  look  up  lovingly, 
so  I  brought  them  with  me.  You  know  that  I  had  no  one  to 
bid  farewell  but  my  flowers.     I  ought  indeed  to  love  one  who      ;. 


Isora's    Child.  395 

has  been  so  good  to  the  orphan."     Flora  looked  up  with  a 
glowing;  smile. 

"Don't  say  'ought,'"  replied  the  husband.  "Do  you  not 
thiuk  that  had  we  met  but  recently,  you  would  have  been  as 
much  my  own  ?" 

"  Why,  sometimes,  I  have  strange  thoughts,"  said  Flora, 
"as  though  I  had  always  known  you — as  if  from  eternity  our 
souls  had  been  united — as  if  God  had  woven  our  destinies  since 
the  stars  were  made,  and  that  through  ages  past,  and  ages  to 
come,  we  were  and  would  be  oiie ;  that  this  was  to  be  a  pare 
of  heaven,  only  our  love  would  be  purified,  and  that  the  soul's 
adoration  for  its  Creator  would  not  be  profaned  by  the  mingling 
of  our  spirits'  communion.  Oh  !  my  dearest  husband,  love 
seems  to  me  a  holy  thing  !  I  have  dreamed  that  once,  as  a 
little  girl,  I  sat  on  your  knee,  and  that  you  kissed  my  eyes,  and 
told  me  that  they  were  'twin  stars.' " 

**  Where  was  I,  Flora,  when  you  remember  this  ?" 

"  It  was  in  Rome,  and  some  one — it  must  have  been  my 
father — took  me  away  from  you,  and  said  that  I  must  not  speak 
to  strangers.  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  four  years  of 
age." 

"Did  you  wear  a  string  of  coral,  and  wrought  clasps  upon 
your  sleeves,"  said  Clarendon,  startled. 

*'I  don't  know,  but  I  have  always  carried  on  my  bosom  since 
a  child,  a  little  cross  of  coral  that  my  father  cut  for  me." 

"  The  one  that  I  remarked  this  morning,  Flora  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  laughed  at  me,  and  asked  me  if  it  was  an 
amulet." 

"  Show  it  to  me  now,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  eagerly. 

For  the  first  time,  the  little  cross  was  examined,  when  the 
latter  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  in  a  corner  of  one  of  its  par- 
titions he   drew  forth   one  corresponding  to  it. 

"  They  are  alike,"  said  he,  wondering. 

"  Where  did  you  find  yours?"  said  Flora,  turning  pale,  for 
anything  mysterious  agitated  her. 

"  Where  ?  I  obtained  mine  wiien  1  was  in  London.  I 
observed  its  rare  workmanship  ;  it  hung  on  the  arm  of  a 
lady  with  whom  I  was  conversing — suspended  from  her  brace- 
let— and  seemed  out  of  place.  I  told  her  so,  and  she  said  that 
she  had  a  childish  attachment  for  it,  but  would  give  it  to  me  • 
and  so  I  have  kept  it  ever  since.  And  yours  is  just  like  it- 
strange  1" 


396  IsoKAS    Child. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  it  ?"  said  Flora. 

"  Oh  !  its  a  mere  whim.  I  told  her  I  would  ;  but  should  I 
ever  meet  her,  I  will  return  it." 

"  Was  she  the  lady  you  once  told  me  of  ?"  said  Flora — "  so 
proud  and  beautiful  ?" 

"  Yes,  ray  own  wife."  Flora's  eyes  were  full  of  trust  and 
happiness. 

Louis  Clarendon  now  passionately  loved  his  young  bride, 
and  as  he  met  the  expression  that  beamed  from  her  face,  he 
vowed  to  devote  his  life  to  her  happiness. 

They  immediately  proceeded  to  the  sea-shore,  where  their 
arrival  made  a  sensation  among  the  fashionable  acquaintances 
of  the  groom  who  still  lingered,  though  daily  threatening  to 
depart,  for  the  season  of  gaiety  had  passed,  and  few  were  left 
in  the  halls  where  so  lately  merriment  and  music  had 
resounded. 

Flora  was  accordingly  introduced  into  the  limited  circle, 
where  she  appeared  an  object  of  mingled  curiosity  and  admira- 
tion. Alike  conspicuous  for  her  splendid  dress  and  beauty,  she 
drew  about  her  many  admirers,  anxious  for  an  introduction  to 
the  distinguished  bride.  But  the  manner  of  the  reserved  and 
shrinking  Flora,  excited  more  surprise  than  the  loveliness  which 
attracted.  She  was  entirely  natural — and  only  to  those  she 
pleased  to  address  herself  was  she  even  civil — but  manifested 
her  liking  or  aversion  according  as  persons  pleased  or  dis- 
pleased her.  At  first,  she  was  decidedly  opposed  to  entering 
the  drawing-rooms,  and  showed  some  of  her  old  childish  willful- 
ness, which  had  never  entirely  left  her,  but  her  husband  had 
only  to  look  serious  and  reproachful — when  her  mood  changed, 
and  she  was  submissive  to  his  wishes. 

But  when  in  the  circle  to  which  he  had  drawn  her,  proud 
as  he  was  of  her  fascinations,  she  constantly  alarmed  him,  by 
her  total  avoidance  of  etiquette,  which,  though  not  exhibited 
in  rusticity  or  gaucherie  of  manner,  made  him  tremble  for  her 
impulsive  and  perverse  fancies. 

He  feared  too  the  wild  abandon  that  bewitched  the  admirers 
upon  whom  she  smiled  ;  and  as  by  her  animation,  and  mnsicci 
voice,  she  drew  the  rapt  attention  of  her  listeners,  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon was  bewildered  i.nd  alarmed. 

He  rarely  left  her  side  in  company — he  dared  not — her  teais 
w^ould  start  at  the  proposal.  So  for  the  period  of  a  week  he 
devoted  himself  to  her,  endeavoring  to  reconcile  himself  to  her 


Is  oka's    Child.  397 

whiras,  which  grew  more  varied,  as  she  mingled  in  scenes  of 
excitement.  Alone  with  his  idol,  Mr.  Clarendon  only  found 
freedom  from  annoyance.  Here  no  fears  arose  lest  his  beauti- 
ful Flora  would  start  like  a  fluttering  bird,  if  a  stranger  ap- 
proached her,  and  cling  to  his  arm,  with  nervous  solicitude,  or 
at  the  sight  of  a  proud,  fashionable  woman  of  society,  draw 
herself  up  with  cold  hauteur,  and  turn  her  head  aside,  while  a 
curl  of  contempt  wreathed  her  lip.  Neither  in  solitude  was 
his  jealousy  excited  by  the  eloquent  glances  of  her  eyes,  as 
they  fastened  themselves  upon  some  object  of  her  fancy.  Once 
upon  persuading  her  to  dance,  after  almost  commanding  her 
acquiescence,  to  confer  upon  a  young  friend  ot  his  this  espe- 
cial favor,  after  seeing  her  waist  encircled  by  the  arm  of  another, 
and  her  form  gracefully  undulating  with  her  partner  in  the 
mazes  of  the  waltz,  his  frame  had  thrilled  with  a  pang  of  jeal- 
ousy— and  he  had  fancied  that  her  reluctance  was  feigned,  or 
that  her  partner  would  not  have  so  urgently  solicited  her  hand 
in  the  ensuing  dance,  and  when  the  request  was  made.  Flora 
had  no  time  to  reply,  for  suddenly  the  husband  disappeared 
with  his  bride, 

"  Why  do  you  leave  so  soon  ?  "  said  Flora.  She  looked  at 
her  husband  as  she  spoke — a  strange  expression  gleamed  in  his 
eyes. 

"Were  you  happy  in  that  dance"  said  Mr.  Clarendon  as  his 
eyes  flashed? 

"  Yes — the  music  was  good." 

"  But  why  didn't  you  sing  to  oblige  me  to  night  ?" 
''Oh,"  said  Flora,  "that  was  our  dear  old  library  song — no 
one  but  you  and  Sappho  must  hear  that." 

"  My  precious  one  !  then  I  am  only  in  your  heart — the 
world  cannot  draw  you  from  me.  But  you  must  not  exhibit 
such  preferences.  Some  gentlemen  that  I  present  to  you,' you 
treat  as  indifierentVy  as  if  they  were  blocks  of  wood,  while 
others  you  chat  with,  and  give  your  flowers  to — smile  upon, — 
ah  I  Flora,  are  almost  familiar  with — something  as  you  was 
when  a  child.  Didn't  you  ask  young  Delmont  to  go  on  to  the 
piazza,  because  it  was  so  stupid  in  the  saloon.' " 

*'  Yes.  but  you  wouldn't  go  with  me — you  were  playing  chess.'.'- 
"  And  when  there,  didn't  he  put  flowers  in  your  hair  ?" 
"  Yes,  because  you  like  jessamine  flowers.     I  like  Mr.  Del- 
mont— but  I  was  so  wearied  till  your  game  was  through — so 
vexed  and  tired,  that  I  believe  I  went  to  sleep." 


898  Isora's    Child. 

"  While  Mr.  Delmont  was  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  said  he  would  watch  for  vou — he  wasn't  angry 
I  know,  for  he  called  me  a  sleeping  beauty — and  said  that  he 
hoped  I  wouldn't  go  back  to  the  parlor,  for  that  we  could  hear 
the  sea  roar  better  there.'' 

"  Flora,  I  don't  know  whether  to  keep  you  in  society,  or  out 
of  it." 

"  But  I  was  so  wearied,  and  you  did  not  come.  1  would 
like  never  to  go  to  the  parlors,  if  you  would  stay  with  me,  or 
rove  about." 

"  But  I  cannot  always  be  with  you." 

"  But  you  will  go  to  the  beach  with  me,  to-morrow,  away 
from  these  silly  people  ;  some  of  the  men  look  like  monkeys, 
and  half  of  the  women  seemed  so  fatigued  from  morning  till 
night,  that  I  pity  them,  and  wish  they  were  in  bed  till  they 
become  rested.  I  asked  that  tall  lady,  that  is  called  so 
elegant,  *if  she  was  sleepy,'  and  she  looked  surprised  ;  but  the 
look  seemed  to  tire  her,  and  so  I  walked  away,  but  I  heard 
her  whisper  to  her  sister,  *  quite  a  novelty,  isn't  she  V  I 
knew  that  she  meant  me.  I  didn't  care,  but  I  put  ray  arm 
around  the  dearest  little  girl  in  the  world  and  kissed  her. 
She  was  so  sweet  and  natural.  But  she  blushed  and  seemed 
surprised,  too,  so  I  played  with  my  diamond  ring.  Oh,  I  am 
so  glad  to  come  away,  and  I  know  that  you  are  wearied  too." 

Mr,  Clarendon  was  half  amused  and  half  vexed  with  the 
strangely  metamorphosed  being,  for  whom  happiness  and  health 
had  done  so  much.  She  was  now  full  of  joyous  mirth,  and  her 
laugh  musical  as  her  voice  in  song.  Still  her  wild  gaiety  was 
tempered  by  extreme  sensibility,  and  a  look  or  a  word  of  dis- 
approbation from  her  husband,  would  make  her  smile  pensive, 
and  the  color  flush  to  her  cheek,  while  she  sobered  from  her 
bewitching  playfulness  to  such  serene  repose  that,  but  for  the 
eloquent  tenderness  that  shone  in  her  dark  eyes,  one  might 
have  taken  her  face  for  one  of  Canova's  finest  works  of  art. 

In  the  morning  Flora  stole  away  by  herself  to  the  sea  beach, 
and  alone  with  the  ocean,  listened  to  its  wild,  soothing  music, 
watching  it,  while  it  lay 


'  Calm  as  an  infant,  pillowed  in  its  rest, 
On  a  fond  mother's  bosom,  when  the  sky 
Not  smoother,  gave  the  deep  its  azure  dye, 
•Till  a  new  heaven  was  arched  and  glassed  below.** 


Isoka's    Child.  399 

But  there  was  ar.other  mood  in  wliicli  she  loved  better  to 
watch  the  sea.     She  loved  its 

"  Flashing  brine,  its  spray  and  tempest's  roar, 
She  loved  its  billowy  roll,  as  on  the  shore 
It  dashed  its  surf  in  grand  sublimity." 

Here  the  feelings  of  Flora  assumed  a  new  character,  while 
in  view  of  God's  "greatest  work,  she  thought  seriously  of  the 
sea  of  life,  upon  which  she  had  been  turaultuously  tossed  ;  and 
how  God  had  conducted  her  little  bark  to  a  blissful  haven. 
In  her  heart  she  prayed  that  she  might  be  thankful,  and  that 
her  dear  husband  might  never  regret  that  he  had  chosen  her, 
a  poor  foreign  girl,  from  all  the  world,  and  made  her  fate  so 
happy.  Still  she  wished  that  he  did  not  love  society  so  well, 
but  God  and  nature  more.  She  fervently  wished  that  he  was 
with  her  now,  for  the  sun  was  coming  up  from  his  kingly  bed, 
and  streaming  bright  rays  across  the  waters,  like  the  quivering 
of  molten  gold.  The  emerald-hued  waves,  crested  with 
feathery  foam,  came  dashing,  slowly  but  surely,  towards 
her  feet,  where,  on  a  drifted  log,  she  had  sat,  watching  them. 

Fascinated,  she  played  with  the  silvery  waves,  while  she 
awaited  eagerly  the  coining  of  each  pile  of  spray  ;  suddenly 
the  thought  of  bathing  struck  her — she  believed  her  husband 
still  asleep,  and  that  she  could  return  ere  he  was  alarmed. 
The  sea  had  never  looked  to  her  so  beautiful  and  inviting. 
Hastily  seeking  a  hut,  she  arrayed  herseJf  for  the  sparkling  ele- 
ment. Putting  on  a  dress  of  black,  which  she  girded  about 
the  waist  with  a  sash  of  crimson,  she  ran  over  the  sands,  to 
enjoy  the  waters,  first  placing  a  cap  of  black  and  scarlet  upon 
her  head. 

Distant  ships  were  sitting,  white  winged,  upon  the  waves, 
and  smaller  craft  in  fairy  beauty  floated  into  port.  Gilded 
with  the  morning  sun,  they  rode  upon  the  waters,  each  a  thing 
of  life. 

Inspiring — -delicious  to  Flora  was  her  early  bath  ;  the  wea- 
ther was  cool  enough  to  make  the  ocean  seem  of  pleasant 
warmth,  and  her  frame  to  glow  and  thrill  with  emotion.  Wave 
after  wave  came  dashing  over  her,  until  for  a  moment  she  was 
hid,  to  arise  a  Venus  from  the  flood.  She  first  went  prudently 
from  the  shore — she  hoped  at  times  to  see  her  husband  coming, 
bat  believed  he  had  not  missed  her,  and  revelled  in  the  element 


4:00  Isora'sChild. 

she  loved.  A  wave  had  passed  over  her  and  left  her  stand- 
ing— another  came  glittering  onward,  flashing  in  the  sun- 
beams, like  the  light  of  jewels  ;  unconsciously  she  leaped  forward 
to  feel  the  dash  of  waters — she  was  lifted  from  her  feet — for  a 
moment  she  struggled  to  find  her  footing  ;  like  a  mermaid  or 
goddess  of  the  sea,  she  rode  the  billowy  mass,  and  was  left 
alone  with  the  mighty  ocean,  a  speck  upon  its  surface  !  The 
water  filled  her  skirt,  and  carried  her  aloft  ;  a  wild  shriek  came 
across  the  flood — then  a  gurgling  sound  was  heard  in  the  dark 
green  depths — a  feeling  of  suffocation  as  if  of  rushing,  bubbling 
waters,  was  all  that  poor  Flora  knew,  until  upon  the  beach 
she  lay,  her  head  pillowed  on  her  husband's  breast.  But  a 
moment  since,  how  full  of  joyous  sparkling  life — and  now,  with 
her  long  black  hair,  a  dripping  mass,  thrown  backwards,  she 
seemed  with  her  pale  chiselled  features,  corpse-like  and  hag- 
gard I 

Her  husband  had  wakened,  and,  in  dismay,  discovered 
the  absence  of  Flora,  His  fears  were  at  once  excited,  for  he 
had  known  her  passion  for  the  sea,  and  since  her  coming  to  the 
beach  he  had  never  permitted  her  to  bathe  alone.  Maddened 
with  his  fears,  he  hastily  dressed,  and  flew  on  the  wings  of  ter- 
ror to  the  shore.  Eagerly  his  eyes  peered  over  the  waste  of 
waters  ;  he  saw  no  bathers,  but  something  rose  lightly  on  the 
coming  surf, — then  a  crimson  sash  seemed  borne  aloft.  Like 
the  wing  of  a  flamingo  it  blazed  red  upon  the  snowy  foar^ — 
again  with  half  blinded  eyes  he  gazed — a  streaming  lock  of 
black  hair  now  caugjjt  his  vision,  and  near  by  floated  a  cap 
of  black  and  scarlet.  The  coming  wave  dashed  over  the  fear- 
agonized  husband — another,  and  another,  and  he  grasped  the 
sash.  Flora  had  risen  again,  and  was  not  insensible.  "  This 
way,"  he  screamed,  as  he  breasted  the  sea  towards  her.  He 
held  the  silken  tie  with  death-like  grasp,  and  drew  the  form 
it  clasped,  with  sudden  desperation  towards  him.  The  sash 
seemed  loosened  by  the  effort,  and  Flora's  form  receding  ;  it 
was  but  an  instant,  he  swam  for  a  moment,  and  caught  the 
arm  of  his  wife  ! — she  was  save'd  ! — and  soon  lay  in  a  swoon 
in  his  arms.  He  had  rescued  her  from  a  watery  grave,  looking 
now-death  like  and  colorless  as  herself.  Flora  opened  her  eyes 
and  caught  the  gaze  of  mingled  love  and  gratitude  that  beamed 
upon  her  face. 

"Thank  God,"  was  the  low  exclamation,  "  I  have  not  lost 
thee,  Flora  !"    The  husband   held  his  rescued  wife  with  an 


IsoRAS    Child.  401 

almost  convulsive  clasp,  and  as  she  attempted  to  rise,  he  drew 
her  closer  to  his  bosom,  while  he  murmured, 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  leave  me,  and  go  alone  to  the  water  ?" 

Flora  was  too  languid  to  reply,  and  by  this  time  assistance 
from  the  house  had  been  obtained,  by  one  who  came  to  the 
beach  soon  after  Mr.  Clarendon.  She  lay  for  several  days  ill 
and  languid,  but  finally  recovered,  and  with  her  usual  anima- 
tion, chatted  with  her  favorites  in  the  saloon.  Her  husband 
urged  her  immediate  departure,  but  notwithstanding  her  recent 
dange?-,  she  wished  for  one  more  bath  in  the  surf.  One  beau- 
tiful day,  she  laughingly  said  to  her  husband  : 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  a  shark  that  I  saw,  I  should  not 
have  been  terrified  in  the  sea  ;  that  will  not  happen  again.  If 
you  will  hold  my  hand,  I  can  go  safely  into  the  water  " 

"  One  moment  more,"  said  her  husband,  shuddering,  "  and 
my  efforts  would  have  been  too  late.  No,  Flora — I  cannot 
again  consent  to  your  feet  touching  the  spray." 

"  Ah,  but  I  promise  caution — just  one  dash — one  white- 
capped  wave — ah,  let  me  go  !" 

Flora's  entreaties  were  usually  irresistible,  but  Mr.  Clarendon 
was  now  firm  in  his  denial.  The  young  wife  sighed,  when  she 
thought  her  chief  enjoyment  was  at  an  end,  and  as  she  had 
known  little  of  late  of  the  exercise  of  self-denial,  or  of  submis- 
sion, her  feelings  rebelled  at  what  she  deemed  unreasonable 
restraint. 

With  sweet  earnestness  she  plead,  picturing  herself  to  her 
husband,  securely  held  by  his  hand  ;  while  again,  like  a  duck 
she  played  with  the  waves.  She  told  him  how  bravely  she 
could  breast  the  sea,  and  that  her  rashness  and  late  danger  had 
taught  her  prudence  for  the  future  ;  but  all  in  vain,  tears  and 
entreaties  passed  unheeded,  and  Flora  cried  with  disappoint- 
ment. 

The  following  day  her  husband  consented  that  she  should 
take  personal  leave  of  her  favorite  element.  The  night  before 
their  intended  departure  from  the  beach,  she  came  with  her 
reluctant  husband  again  to  the  shore.  For  a  half  hour  Mr. 
Clarendon  stood  with  Flora,  watching  patiently,  and  with  phi- 
losopliy  the  place  where  she  had  not  long  since  struggled  in 
the  billows.  His  blood  turned  cold,  yet  still  he  stood,  looking 
at  the  drifted  surge.  Far  out  his  wife  peered  again  upon  the 
distant  sails  that  sat  like  swans  upon  the  waters,  envying  the 
sea  birds  that  winged   across  them,  and  in  the  bright  blue 


402  Isoea's    Child. 

ether  lost  themselves,  to  reappear  and  dip  their  wings  in  the 
sweet  green  flood.  But  the  bathers  were  also  by,  and  she  was 
forbidden  to  join  them. 

While  with  a  wistful  eye  Flora  looked  upon  the  diving, 
plunging  party,  Mr.  Delmont  approached,  and  urged  Flora 
to  come  out  with  his  party.  "  There  is  no  danger,"  said  he, 
*'  with  common  discretion  ;  Come,  array  yourself,  Mrs.  Claren- 
don, and  with  your  husband's  guidance  and  mine,  you  must  be 
safe." 

The  person  who  spoke  was  a  gentlemanly,  handsome  man, 
with  frank,  ingenuous  manners  ;  he  was  much  fascinated  by  the 
artlessness  and  beauty  of  the  young  bride,  whose  exhibited 
preference  for  himself  had  flattered  him. 

The  eyes  of  Mr.  Clarendon  met  Flora's  look  of  appeal,  and 
turning  almost  suddenly  away,  said, 

''  ±so  sir,  Mrs.  Clarendon  has  had  enough  of  sea-bathing." 
The  manner  of  the  husband  was  peremptory,  and  Mr.  Delmont 
walked  ofl'  with  a  bow,  in  another  direction. 

As  Flora  looked  up,  her  eyes  glistened,  which  feeling  her 
husband  jealously  fancied  arose  more  from  the  wish  of  joining 
Mr.  Delmont,  than  for  the  proposed  enjoyment.  He  had  erred. 
Flora  heard  his  tone  of  anger,  and  felt  herself  in  some  way 
aggrieved,  and  her  wishes  unreasonably  thwarted.  Half  pet- 
tishly, and  in  a  half  wounded  tone,  she  murmured  : 

*'  I  cannot  see  why  you  wish  to  thwart  me  ;  we  can  return  in 
time  for  you  to  join  the  whist  party." 

Mr.  Clarendon  had  rarely  left  his  wife  for  amusement,  and 
was  now  wounded  by  her  remarks.  He  had  felt,  since  her  peril, 
a  shuddering  fear  of  her  exposure  to  the  sea,  and  this  solicitude, 
with  some  jealousy  of  her  ready  accession  to  the  invitation 
received,  now  excited  his  displeasure. 

To  the  remark  of  Flora  he  did  not  reply,  and  both  returned 
home  vexed.  Flora  went  silently  to  her  room, — for  the  first 
time  since  their  marriage  a  cloud  came  over  her  happiness. 

The  husband  had  left  his  wife  to  cry  alone.  The  willfulness 
of  Flora  at  first  mastered  her  real  penitence  for  her  opposition, 
but  she  finally  sobbed  hysterically,  and,  at  last,  after  long 
looking  for  her  husband's  return  laid  down  like  a  worn-out 
child  who  had  grieved  itself  with  sorrow,  and  hopeless  without 
reconciliation.  That  her  husband  had  ceased  to  love  her,  was 
the  great  burden  at  her  heart,  while  he  nursed  his  vexation, 
arising  from  her  want  of  appreciation  of  his  tenderness,  and 


Child.  403 

her  wish  to  accompany  the  Dehmont  party  into  the  surf,  after 
he  liad  refused  her  permission. 

For  the  first  time  he  was  angry  with  his  wife,  and  resolved 
that  she  should  feel  the  effects  of  his  displeasure.  So  much 
ag-ainst  his  own  inclination,  he  remained  through  the  evening 
in  the  saloon  of  the  hotel.  At  the  hour  of  eleven,  he  went  in 
j)ursuit  of  Flora,  but  to  his  utter  dismay,  she  had  fled,  he  knew 
not  whither.  The  night  w^s  dark,  an  easterly  storm  was  brew- 
ing. The  distant  surge,  like  a  low  moan,  fell  on  the  ear  from  a 
distance  ;  but  as  yet,  the  sea  was  calm.  Mr.  Clarendon  had 
looked  out  during  the  evening  upon  the  sky,  and  observed  that 
although  some  stars  were  twinkling,  that  in  the  north  and  east 
black  clouds  were  gathering  like  a  pall  over  the  heavens. 

On  finding  Flora  gone  from  her  room,  Mr.  Clarendon  hastily 
sought  her  through  the  house,  on  the  balconies,  and  in  every 
spot  where  he  fancied  she  might  have  wandered.  His  next 
thought  was  the  beach — and  yet  his  mind  was  agonized  at  the 
suspicion  that  she  might  have  there  fled  in  her  excitement,  and 
perhaps  again  endangered  her  life.  With  precipitation  he  pro- 
ceeded towards  the  sea,  and  to  her  favorite  spot.  Terrified,  he 
perceived  that  the  predicted  storm  was  approaching,  and  that 
the  sea  and  wind  were  already  thundering  together.  The  night 
suddenly  became  dark,  and,  excepting  as  the  gleam  of  lightning 
flashed  across  his  vision,  the  alarmed  husband  was  enveloped  in 
gloom.  The  roar  of  sea,  wind,  and  thunder,  continued,  deafen- 
ing any  sound  that  might  otherwise  be  heard  in  the  storm. 
Rapidly  now  came  down  the  rain,  and  with  increased  violence 
the  waves  dashed  against  the  sanded  shore.  Mr.  Chirendon 
had  yet  raised  no  alarm.  He  was  too  much  terrified  to  return  ; 
and  at  each  dash  of  the  sea,  he  almost  fancied  that  he  saw  his 
lost  l)ride  in  the  darkness,  breasting  the  foam,  and  once  wildly 
caught  at  a  bundle  of  seaweed  that  was  washed  on  to  his  feet. 

Throwing  the  wet  mass  aside  in  despair,  he  rushed  towards 
the  house — he  again  sought  Flora  through  the  rooms — yet  he 
roused  no  help.  He  felt  that  if  she  was  living  he  could  End 
her.  The  terrible  thought  of  insanity  crossed  his  mind  ;  and 
the  precaution  of  her  physician  agonized  his  heart.  He  went 
to  his  chamber — he  searched  it  thoroughly — he  looked  out  in 
the  darkness — a  broad,  flickering  glare  of  lightning  flashed  in 
his  eyes — the  sea  was  visible  for  the  moment,  then  all  was  dark. 
Suddenly  the  thunder  pealed  an  awful  crash,  and  died  away  in 
a  low  and  distant  roll.     He  looked  about  his  room — the  bon- 


404:  I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child. 

net  of  his  wife  lay  where  she  had  thrown  it  on  his  entrance, 
but  her  shawl  was  gone.  He  threw  up  the  window  and  listened, 
as  if  he  could  hear  the  music  of  a  voice  that  might  never  break 
on  his  ears  again. 

Buttoning  on  a  heavier  coat,  with  his  under  garments  still 
dripping,  he  went  forth  again  in  the  storm,  without  object  or 
purpose,  ne  only  felt  that  his  idol  was  lost  ;  that  his  anger 
had  driven  her  from  him,  and  that  all  he  could  do  was  to  seek 
her. 

The  storm  was  now  abating.  An  hour  had  passed,  and  the 
moon  came,  cold  and  pale,  through  the  black  clouds  that  seemed 
parting  for  the  admission  of  her  silver  light. 

Mr.  Clarendon  now  sought  a  couple  of  sturdy  men,  and  ac- 
quainted them  with  his  errand,  wiien  again  they  approached 
the  sea.  The  wind  was  now  strong,  and  swept  in  gusty  rage 
against  the  night-wanderers. 

Again  they  looked  out  upon  the  ocean.  The  swell  was  gor- 
geously sublime.  The  light  of  the  moon  revealed  its  alternate 
shades  of  black  and  white,  as  the  mountain  billows  rose  and 
fell,  white-capped  and  silvery.  The  spray  now  dashed  in  the 
faces  of  the  husband  and  his  companions,  but  still  they  searched 
the  sanded  shore,  until,  in  despair,  they  gave  up  the  pursuit. 
Suddenly,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  in  the  distance,  one  of  the 
men  thought  he  discerned,  in  a  fishing  hut  on  the  beach,  some- 
thing lying  upon  the  floor.  They  proceeded  towards  the  spot, 
where,  stretched  out  upon  a  hard  bench,  lay  the  form  of 
Flora. 

The  rain  had  beaten  in  upon  the  hut,  but  she  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  the  storm,  of  all  but  her  husband's  desertion  and 
anger. 

She  had  awaited  him  until  the  hour  of  ten,  ready  to  confess  her 
error,  but  he  did  not  come  ;  another  half-hour  had  passed,  and 
she  crept  sadly  down  the  staircase,  and  looked  at  the  company 
in  the  saloon.  There  she  saw  him  with  a  lady  on  his  arm,  gaily 
conversing,  without,  she  believed,  one  thought  of  her  1  She 
cared  not  where  she  went,  and  wandered  fearlessly  towards  the 
sea.  The  storm  arose — the  lightning  flashed,  and  she  rushed 
towards  the  hut.  She  dared  not  come  forth  in  the  fearful 
darkness,  so  she  lay  and  listened  to  the  roar  of  the  elements. 
But  when  the  moon  came  forth  she  looked  out,  and  wondered 
if  her  husband  had  forgotten  her  sorrow,  and  w^as  with  the  lady 
yet.     Her  fears  prevailed.     She  could  not  go  back  alone,  and 


Child.  405 

thus  they  found  her,  her  arms  and  bosom  twined  toj^ether,  and 
her  head  upon  her  breast. 

Mr.  Clarendon  came  toward  her.  "  Flora  ?"  said  he,  "  my 
poor  child  1"  With  a  wild  shriek,  and  a  spring  of  joy,  she 
clung  to  his  breast. 

"  How  came  you  here  this  terrible  night?"  said  her  husband, 
putting  her  cold  cheek  to  his. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  trembling  answer. 

"  Come  home  now,  darling — come  home  and  I  will  never 
grieve  you  more." 

"Was  you  with  her  through  this  dreadful  storm  ?" 

"  I  have  been  long  looking  for  you  ;  see  how  wet  I  am  !  I 
have  stood  on  the  beach  for  an  hour." 

''  In  the  storm  !  Oh  1  forgive  poor  Flora — she  has  longed 
to  tell  you  how  wrong  she  was." 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  Come,  quickly,  where  we  can  obtain  dry 
clothes  and  warmth." 

They  soon  went  forth  from  the  hut.  Flora  shielded  by  a  large 
shawl,  and  as  the  storm  had  abated,  little  inconvenience  was 
felt  in  returning  ;  and  few  were  happier  than  Louis  Clarendon 
that  gusty  night,  after  his  frantic  wandering  for  his  hazardous, 
too  sensitive  bride. 

The  following  mormng  Mr.  Clarendon  left  the  sea-shore  with 
his  wife,  and,  but  for  Flora's  health,  would  have  proceeded  im- 
mediately homewards,  for  he  considered  travelling  a  bore,  and 
its  annoyances  poorly  balanced  by  its  pleasures.  But  to  Flora, 
who  had  lived  a  secluded  life  in  the  city,  all  scenes  were  new, 
and  her  enjoyment  of  the  country  enthusiastic  and  natural.  So 
before  they  returned,  they  sought  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  and 
the  bolder  scenery  of  the  White  Hills — localities  which 
occasioned  Mr.  Clarendon  almost  as  much  anxiety  for  his 
romantic  wife  as  on  the  sea-shore.  In  all  those  beautiful 
objects  of  nature.  Flora  longed  for  the  sympathy  of  Mrs.  Lin- 
den. All  that  had  saddened  her  heart,  on  her  going,  was  the 
mystery  concerning  her  friend's  silence  and  absence.  Her  hus- 
band had  taken  no  pains  to  acquaint  any  one  with  his  marriage 
excepting  Colonel  Livingston  and  Cora,  for  satistied  as  he  was 
with  his  fascinating,  beautiful  young  bride,  he  had  felt  no  ambi- 
tion to  make  known  his  nuptials  to  his  friends.  Since  his 
anxiety  arising  from  the  peculiarities  and  strange  moods  of 
Flora,  he  had  never  opposed  her  wishes,  and  had  been  rewarded 
by  her  unvarying  tranquillity.    He  had  written  home,  and  given 


406  Isoea's    Child. 

orders  for  the  addition  of  every  adornment  to  his  house  aguinsfc 
his  arrival,  leaving  his  library  alone  untouched.  Mr.  Clarendon 
hoped  to  please  and  dazzle  the  eye  of  Flora,  by  beauty  and 
magnificence.  But  she  only  longed  for  a  sight  of  the  place, 
which  had  been  alike  to  her,  one  of  joy  and  sorrow.  She 
thought  little  of  its  luxuries — her  mind  was  roving  to  all  its 
dear  associations,  and  soon  the  time  came  when  she  and  her 
husband  arrived  at  the  door  of  their  city  mansion. 

With  eager  curiosity  the  servants  had  awaited  the  arrival  of 
their  master  and  his  new  wife,  and  many  were  the  queries  and 
observations  upon  the  remarkable  changes  that  had  transpired 
in  the  household.  But  none  did  this  epoch  effect  as  unpleas- 
antly as  Miss  Dorothy  Benson.  But  regardless  of  the  maiden- 
lady's  emotions  or  surmises,  the  door-bell  loudly  rung,  and 
hurry  and  commotion  was  felt,  and  seen  in  and  about  the  large 
stone  mansion  that  had  been  for  weeks  so  silent,  for  the  owner 
and  head  thereof  had  returned  from  his  wedding  journey,  and 
a  new-comer  was  ushered  into  the  splendid  drawing-rooms,  that 
had  been  muffled  in  darkness — almost  impenetrable  gloom — 
since  the  last  finishing  touch  had  been  added  to  their  superb 
adorning. 

It  might  be  that  a  servant,  on  stealthy  steps,  had  turned  the 
key,  and  for  one  moment  glared  about  a  pair  of  wondering 
eyes  over  the  rooms,  but  the  ray  admitted  was  soon  excluded. 
How  little  had  poor  Benson  dreamed,  in  her  excitement,  tliat 
this  dreaded  bride  was  none  other  than  the  *'  little  orphan 
Flora  !'' 

Widely  opened  the  polished  doors,  while  Flora  stepped  into 
the  parlors,  once  familiar,  but  now  so  changed.  Their  old- 
fashioned  splendor  was  left,  but  over  this  a  magical  touch  had 
sj)read.  At  first  the  scene  before  her  was  like  a  vision  of  fairy 
land,  dimly  seen,  so  heavily  the  curtains  hung  over  the  closed 
shutters.  But  soon  soft  rays  of  light  were  admitted,  when  the 
imagination  of  Flora  seemed  borne  to  some  bright  Arabian 
bower.  Her  namesake  goddess  seemed  to  have  woven  the 
carpet  on  which  she  trod,  so  full  was  it  of  garden  blossoms,  and 
in  the  crimson-tinted  light,  bronzes,  and  valued  paintings,  stood 
and  hung  revealed,  all  arranged  by  foreign  taste,  and  with 
grouping  effect. 

Bow  windows  gleaming  with  the  hues  of  the  ruby  and 
amethyst,  in  which  couches  of  satin  were  half  hid  by  drapery, 
and    folds   of   lace,   while   corresponding   recesses,   lined   with 


Isoka's    Child.  407 

mirrors,  reflected  each  object  of  luxurious  beauty.  The  light 
of  the  rooms  presented  different  colors.  The  rich  blue  one 
contrasting  with  the  gorgeous  crimson  of  the  other.  But 
past  these  decorations,  Flora  wandered,  regardless  of  the 
veiled  nuns  in  Parian  marble,  who  held  back  in  each  sculptured 
hand,  folds  of  transparent  lace,  while  within  the  enclosure 
whicli  they  parted,  stood  a  couch  of  white  and  azure,  and 
before  it,  a  sofa-table  inwrought  with  silver.  She  saw,  but 
scarcely  noticed  glittering  chandeliers,  vases  of  veined  agate, 
the  frost-work  of  silver,  and  the  ricliness  of  ornaments  taste- 
fully arranged  in  fairy-like  places,  for  across  the  rooms  her 
eye  had  roved  to  an  old-fashioned  sofa,  where  she  had  often 
curled  herself  when  a  sorrowing  child,  and  since,  sat  at  the 
dusk  of  evening,  with  her  guardian.  Once  seated,  her  luuk 
was  again  for  a  familiar  object,  and  it  w^andered  not  in  vain. 
An  old-fashioned  work-table,  and  upon  it  a  small  work-box, 
spoke  of  the  olden  times,  for  they  had  belonged  to  the  mother 
of  her  husband  ;  also,  an  oval  mirror,  in  which  she  had  looked 
at  her  tiny  self  in  a  microscopic  view,  hung  forward  in  the 
same  place. 

On  each  object  that  spoke  of  the  past.  Flora  fastened  her 
eye,  for  her  heart,  just  now,  was  very  busy  with  remembrances; 
and  when  such  were  scanned,  from  the  parlors  she  went  to  the 
conservatory,  where  she  had  spent  so  many  of  her  early  hours. 
Here,  brighter  and  richer  blossoms  bloomed  than  the  simple 
roses  and  geraniums  she  had  left.  The  air  was  redolent  with 
exotics.  The  tropics  had  furnished  their  richest  sweets  for  the 
greenhouse  of  the  bride.  Starry  petals  mingling  w^ith  crimson 
and  sapphire-hued  cups,  hung  from  the  roof,  twining  in  and  out 
of  the  fragrant  vines,  and  wreathing  among  the  crystal  lamps 
there  suspended. 

Around  her  were  a  forest  of  shrubs,  glossy  and  green,  leav- 
ing in  soft  shadow,  the  flowers  among  them.  To  her  own 
Tf^nm,  the  bride  passed  on.  Here,  chaste  richness  prevailed. 
The  chairs  and  couches  were  light  and  tasteful,  corresponding 
with  the  hangings  of  delicate  blue,  that  covered  the  windows. 
With  a  bewildered  smile.  Flora  cast  her  eyes  about  her,  and 
then,  with  a  yearning  unsatisfied  gaze,  fastened  them  upon  her 
husband.  She  had  not  yet  reached  her  ho7ne.  He  anxiouslj^ 
watched  her  face. 

"  What  is  it,  Flora  ?"  he  said  with  a  smile. 


408  Isora's    Child. 

"  I  dare  not  ask,"  she  said.  "  The  library — is  that,  too, 
changed  V 

The  doting  husband  was  satisfied.  He  had  anticipated  her 
wishes,  and  led  her  down  over  the  broad  staircase,  and 
through  the  spacious  hall,  lined  with  paintings  of  his  ancestors, 
to  Flora's  old  loved  sitting-place.  Here  she  had  a  welcome  ; 
with  a  bound  Sappho  leaped  to  the  breast  of  his  master,  there 
planting  his  rough  paws,  and  in  his  joy,  wagging  his  tail 
almost  in  the  face  of  Flora.  But  her  turn  for  a  caress  came. 
Lovingly  were  his  long,  silken  ears  stroked  by  her  delicate 
fingers  ;  while  with  boisterous  demonstrations  the  animal 
testified  his  remembrance  and  joy. 

"  Dear,  good  old  dog  ! — the  dear  old  place — oh,  my  guar- 
dian " 

"  Flora  could  say  no  more.  Her  husband  was  also  silent, 
and  as  full  of  happiness. 

"  Enough  of  this,"  he  w^hispered,  ''  you  must  shed  no  more 
tears — you  are  at  home  at  last.". 

Flora  now  gazed  around  on  each  familiar  thing.  She  ran 
to  the  large  oaken  table,  and  whirled  over  the  papers,  and 
books,  and  holding  in  both  her  little  hands  those  that  she  and 
her  guardian  had  read  together,  and  across  the  carpet  of  oak 
and  green  flew  to  the  shelves,  to  see  her  old  companions, 
whose  very  covers  seemed  like  familiar  friends  ;  then  in  the 
arm-chair  she  sat,  while  she  gazed  upon  the  well-remembered 
pictures,  that  hung  above  the  mantel-piece  in  carved  frames, 
whose  cracked  canvas  and  dim  figures  had  been  the  study  of 
her  childhood.  There,  too,  was  the  basket  of  waxen  fruit,  hid 
behind  its  covering  of  glass,  which  had  been  the  w^ork  of  the 
elder  Mrs.  Clarendon,  in  her  youth.  Snugly  it  nestled  behind  the 
same  green  curtain,  which  had  ever  to  her,  given  it  mysterious 
value.  Here,  too,  was  the  old-fashioned  harp,  ou  whose 
strings  her  fingers  had  often  swept.  She  did  not  pass  it  by 
without  a  touch,  accompanied  by  a  low  gush  of  melody.  She 
looked  out  of  the  large  bay  window,  now  thrown  up,  on  the 
court  yard,  where  a  tall  elm  stood  shading  the  tower,  in  which 
the  library  was  built.  There,  too,  hung  the  old-fashioned 
lamp,  that,  for  antiquity's  sake,  was  allowed  its  long-esta- 
blished home,  though  the  introduction  of  gas  had  made  it 
useless. 

"  But  you  have  not  seen  all  yet,"  said  the  gratified  husband, 


1  s  o  li  A '  s    Child.  409 

'"see  here,  your  little  rose  tree — this  could  not  find  its  way  into 
the  greenhouse  ;  and  here  is  the  page  we  last  turned  together 
the  last  time  you  sat  upon  this  sofa." 

"  No,  no,  dear  husband,  not  the  Last,  one  secret  I  have  long 
kept  from  you." 

''  What  is  it.  Flora  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you — you  remember  the  night  you  found  me  by 
the  bed  of  the  poor  old  woman,  and  when  you  tried  to  win  me 
back,  one  year  ago — but  you  knew  little  of  the  weakness  of  the 
heart  that  loved  you — how  the  next  day,  I  followed  you  home, 
and  here  on  this  very  seat,  I  waited  for  your  return  ;  oh,  well 
do  I  remember  the  struggles  of  that  hour  ;  I  then  cared  for 
naught  on  earth,  or  heaven — for  only — thee." 

"  Oh,  Flora,  why  did  I  not  see  you  ?" 

"  You  did  not,  but  I  saw  you — your  head  lay  on  the  parlor 
sofa,  and  my  Bible  over  your  eyes  ;  that  precious  book  saved 
me  from  a  step  so  wrong — God  was  near  me  then.^' 

''  May  Heaven  forgive  the  sorrow  that  I  have  cost  you — 
your  little  Bible  I  I  will  keep  it  as  a  talisman." 

"  May  it  bring  us  both  safely  home  at  last,"  said  the  wife 
with  serious  sweetness,  "  and  oh,  may  Heaven  guard  us,  in  our 
Paradise  ;  dearly  as  1  love  you,  I  can  never  regret  the  hour  I 
fled,  Mrs.  Linden  was  my  guardian  angel  then^  and  God  put 
it  in  her  heart  to  warn  me  " 

"  And  to  bring  my  angel  home,  in  all  her  purity  to  bless  my 
life.  I  forgive  her  who  kept  you  from  me,  but  I  then  could  not  ; 
she  seemed  a  very  serpent." 

"  I  see  the  hand  of  God  in  all  this,  dearest, — do  you  not 
think  it  is  sweet  to  trust  in  Heaven  ?" 

'*  I  cannot  enough  release  my  hold  on  the  world  to  rest  on 
your  anchor.  Flora." 

"  But  when  He  has  so  loved  us,  it  seems  easy,  to  give  Hira 
but  our  hearts.  Oh,  there  have  been  times  when  I  have  been 
almost  in  Heaven." 

"  But  sorrow  led  you  there  ;  life  had  no  temptations  for 
you." 

"But  the  world  held  my  idol,  and  yet  I  gave  him  up  for 
God,  and  purity.  He  has  rewarded  me  with  happiness  oa 
earth  ;  but  I  sometimes  fear  that  it  is  all  too  much  for  my 
weak,  impulsive,  erring  nature  ;  and  that  I  shall  now  go  back- 
wards, and  be  drawn  into  this  great  world's  vortex,  and  find  in 

'l8 


410  Isoea's    Child. 

all  this  splendor  and  earthly  Eden,  and  in  my  husband's  love, 
sufficient  to  root  out  holier  desires." 

"  Don't  fear  opposition  to  your  religous  devotion.  Flora.  I 
love  religion  in  a  woman  ;  it  hallows  her  character  in  my  eyes. 
In  her  rectitude,  lies  her  husbaml's  happiness,  and  his  lionor 
rests  iu  iier  purity  of  conscience.  But  ail  this  will  yet  harmo- 
Dize  with  tlie  duties  of  society  ;  your  sphere  will  command  your 
presence  in  the  worhl  5  so  be  as  good  as  you  are  beautiful,  and 
then  I  know  that  1  shall  have  a  dutiful  as  well  as  a  loving 
wife."  Mr.  Clarendon  smiled,  as  his  last  words  were  jestingly 
spoken,  for  he  knew  that  Flora's  greatest  struggle  was  to  yield, 
and  that  through  fear  of  her  excitability  he  had  often  con- 
trolled, and  softened  his  opposition  to  their  different  tastes — • 
that  the  exacting,  imperious  will,  that  had  governed  and 
swayed  all  within  his  intluence,  since  a  boy,  was  only  smothered 
in  his  tenderness  for  his  bride,  and  he  sometimes  trembled  lest 
the  current  of  their  lives  would  not,  as  now,  flow  smoothly  on. 
But  this  was  but  a  transient  thought,  and  passed  him  like  a 
summer  cloud. 

Her  opposition  now  so  gentle,  but  gave  spirit  to  their  inter- 
course ;  it  would  be  but  the  sweeter  task  to  mould  her  to  his 
tastes  and  wishes.  In  the  library  their  tea  was  served  the 
first  evening  in  their  home,  and  before  it  passed,  song  had  made 
it  rich  with  melody.  The  Present  had  shut  out  the  Past  and 
the  Future  was  unclouded. 


CHAPTER  XXYII. 

In  struggling  with  misfortune,  lies  Uie  proof 
Of  virtue— 

SUAKSPEARK. 

Let  fortune  empty  all  her  quiver  on  me, 
I  have  a  soul  that  like  pn  ample  shield 
Can  take  in  all,  and  verge  enough  for  more. 

Dkyben. 

IT  was  a  rural  and  picturesque  region  which  Rufus  Wilton 
selected  for  the  practice  of  his  profession.  The  portion  of  it 
which  he  chose  for  a  home,  was  among  the  undulating  ridges 
of  land  upon  the  James'  River,  in  Virginia.     Nowhere,  on  this 


Isoea's    Child.  411 

side  of  the  Atlantic,  were  lovelier  views  presented,  or  richer 
wealth  of  foliage,  than  in  the  wild,  half-uucnltivated  spot  over 
which  he  daily  rode  in  his  light  vehicle  on  his  medical  visits. 
In  the  early  s})ring,  and  during-  the  long  summer  time,  he  richly 
enjoyed  his  walks  and  drives  about  the  green  valleys  and  in 
tlireading  the  successive  chains  of  forest  hills,  so  full  of  wood- 
land music,  and  soft  shadowy  brightness.  Here  lovely  lakes 
slept  in  embosomed  seclusion,  around  which  the  laurel  bloomed, 
and  thousands  of  wild  flowers  nestled  in  shady  nooks,  covering 
the  earth  with  a  gay  carpet.  Near  by,  the  James  River 
glided  calmly  on,  sometimes  rolling  through  chains  of  hills,  and 
then  stealing  among  valleys  of  deep  quietude. 

In  a  small  cottage,  he  and  his  mother  had  located  them- 
selves, and  with  simple  fare,  and  an  humble  dwelling,  the  recent 
heir-apparent  to  the  Livingston  estate,  once  possessed  by  his 
father,  was  now  content. 

The  spot  which  he  had  chosen  for  their  home,  was  in  a 
valley  among  the  hills  that  bordered  the  river,  not  many 
miles  from  Richmond.  It  was  a  rough  structure,  built  with 
logs ;  and  consisted  of  only  two  rooms,  divided  by  a  wide 
hall,  a  piazza,  rude  and  unpainted,  extending  around  the  dwell- 
ing. 

A  small  hut  for  the  servants  was  in  the  rear.  Over  the 
cottage  a  high  elm  waved  its  branches,  sheltering  it  effectually 
from  the  sun,  while  a  beautiful  acclivity  reared  its  summit 
near  by,  covert^d  with  verdure.  Rivulets  coursed  their  way 
down  tliis  hill,  and  falling  into  a  basin,  a  fitting  receptacle  for 
the  waters,  formed  a  small  lake.  This  little  vale  possessed 
few  attractions,  excepting  to  the  lover  of  quiet  and  seclusion  ; 
but  after  the  wandering  and  sorrowful  life  of  its  mistress,  it 
possessed  to  her  the  luxury  she  craved.  India  matting  covered 
its  floors,  and  furniture  of  painted  wood  its  richest  upholstery. 
There  were  many  flowers  in  the  yard,  but  little  care  had  been 
expended  upon  them,  and  they  grew  rank  and  wild,  even  into 
the  walk,  which  was  choked  by  mosses  and  trailing  vines. 
Mrs.  Linden  effected  no  new  arrangements,  and  her  son  was 
too  much  occupied  for  any  attention  to  horticulture.  Here 
was  his  brief  resting-place,  and  scarcely  that  ;  for  his  skill  as 
a  physician  and  surgeon  was  becoming  widely  known,  and  led 
to  a  large  professional  business,  which  kept  him  necessarily 
much  from  home. 

He  had  started  favorably,  having  made  the  acquaintance  of 


412  Isoka's    Guild. 

a  wealthy  old  Virg'iiiiaii,  who  had  formerly  known  the  Xevillo 
family,  and  had  been  intimately  acquainted  with  his  grand- 
father. He  had  been  called  soon  after  his  removal,  to  visit 
the  only  daughter  of  the  old  gentleman,  whose  situation  had 
been  deemed  critical,  and  who  recovered  her  health  under  his 
treatment.  For  his  services,  he  had  not  only  been  richly 
rewarded  thereby,  but  secured  the  warm  friendshij^  of  the 
distinguished  friends  of  his  patron. 

From  this  time,  he  became  rapidly  prosperous,  and  through 
influence  and  popularity,  widely  known.  The  circumstances 
which  had  aroused  his  energies,  had  been  woven  into  a 
romantic  tale,  and  were  circulated  in  a  region  where  warm 
hearts,  and  sympathizing  friends  were  not  wanting  to  make 
his  path  as  easy  as  a  young  physician's  extensive  practice 
would  permit. 

His  visits  in  families  of  wealth,  brought  their  rich  gains 
to  his  purse,  and  gratitude  to  his  heart  for  such  hospitality 
and  civility  as  the  stranger  nowhere  more  lavishly  meets,  than 
among  the  free-hearted  sons  of  Virginia.  He  had  beeu  as 
successful  as  zeal  and  devotion  to  his  profession  could  make  a 
young  practitioner  ;  yet  for  all  this,  his  heart  often  sunk 
dispirited  ;  and  when  he  returned  wearied  to  his  home,  the 
distance  that  still  severed  him  from  Cora  looked  interminable. 
His  leisure  hours  were  spent  in  study.  He  grew  pale,  and  his 
expression  more  refined,  in  the  eloquent  light  that  beamed 
from  his  thoughtful  face,  while  acquiring  the  knowledge 
that  added  its  rich  stores  to  a  mind  fertile  in  intellectual 
resources. 

He  had  been  absent  a  year  from  his  beloved  Cora,  when  by 
the  exercise  of  his  genius,  he  made  a  valuable  discovery  in  one 
of  the  departments  of  surgery,  which  called  the  attention  of 
the  medical  faculty  to  this  new  light  in  their  hemisphere, 
giving  his  name  celebrity  in  the  journals  of  the  country, 
devoted  to  medicine  and  physics. 

The  benefits  resulting  in  consequence,  were  immediately  felt, 
and  his  heart  beat  with  satisfaction,  when  beyond  his  richest 
anticipations,  he  found  himself  on  the  road  to  independence, 
with  sanguine  hopes  of  the  accumulation  of  a  fortune. 

One  evening  after  a  day  of  toil,  he  seated  himself  in  his 
rustic  chair,  to  read  letters  just  received.  His  mother  was 
beside  him,  her  face  beaming  with  happiness. 

One,  bearing  the  superscription  of  Cora,  found  its  way  in  a 


Isora's    Child.  413 

secure  hidinj^-place,  for  a  private  perusal.  After  reading 
many  on  business,  he  took  up  another,  bearing  a  foreign  post- 
mark, directed  to  his  mother.  She  eagerly  clasped  it,  for  she 
knew  that  it  must  come  from  her  only  brother,  in  Canton. 
A  long  period  had  intervened  since  she  had  heard  from  him, 
and,  with  infinite  satisfaction,  she  read  of  his  intention  to 
return  to  liis  native  country,  and  take  possession  of  their 
paternal  home,  an  estate  in  Virginia,  on  which  stood  "  JS'eville 
Hall,"  the  old  family  residence. 

Mrs.  Linden  knew  that  in  this  region,  the  old  neglected 
place  must  still  exist,  but  in  a  dilapidated  condition.  The 
associations  of  her  childhood  were  connected  with  it,  and  she 
had  avoided  the  pain  that  a  view  would  occasion  her  by 
hitherto  leaving  it  unsought.  But  now  a  handsome  remittance 
had  been  enclosed  for  her  own  benefit,  sufficient  to  cover  the 
expense  of  repairing  the  old  mansion,  and  making  it  a  com- 
fortable home,  for  his  and  her  declining  years.  He  mentioned 
that  his  health  had  been  for  some  time  failing,  and  that  his 
only  hope  of  recovery  rested  in  a  return  to  his  native  land. 
He  spoke  in  affectionate  tones  of  his  nephew,  whom,  he  said, 
he  should  make  his  heir. 

With  great  pleasure,  Rufus  Wilton  undertook  the  project 
set  on  foot  by  his  uncle  ;  and  sought  the  old  residence  of 
his  mother's  family,  and  her  birthplace.  He  understood  that  it 
had  been  left  in  the  hands  of  tenants,  and  had  been  for  years 
neglected,  but  that  it  admitted  of  restoration  to  its  primeval 
beauty.  The  following  day,  with  his  mother,  he  sought  the 
old  spot,  intending  to  take  immediate  steps  to  put  it  in  order, 
according  to  his  uncle's  directions. 

Proceeding  forthwith  to  Richmond,  he  drove  about  the 
beautiful  eminences  in  the  city  ;  among  wdiich  he  visited 
Gamble  Hill,  and  with  his  mother  feasted  his  eye  on  the  lovely 
scene  here  exhibited,  where  the  sweeping  waters  of  its  peaceful 
river  were  reflected  in  living  beauty — then  from  the  State 
House  they  looked  down  upon  the  city,  sleeping  in  its  pictur- 
esque repose  below  them,  and  around  on  the  park-like  beauty  of 
the  grounds  of  the  elegant  residences  near  by,  where  children 
and  their  nurses  revel  in  wild  freedom  beneath  the  towering 
trees  that  are  clumped  together  over  the  verdant  land- 
scape. 

One  can  hardly  say  too  much  of  this  charming  region  ;  and 
as  here  our  young  favorite  commenced  his  profession,  we  must 


414:  Isoka's    Child. 

be  excused  if  we  have  digressed,  long  enough  to  add  our 
tribute  to  its  praise. 

All  over  the  city  and  its  environs,  the  son  rode  with  his 
mother,  seeking  the  residence  which,  since  she  left  it,  as  a  little 
child,  she  had  never  seen.  But  "  Neville  Hall  "  was  nowhere 
to  be  found,  and  many  thought  that  it  had  been  burned  years 
ago,  and  others  remembered  that  such  a  place  was  once 
ofeed  for  sale,  with  the  negroes  belonging  to  its  owner, 
twenty-five  years  ago  ;  and  that  the  informant  had  not  heard 
of  the  place  since.  But  Rufus  Wilton  was  not  one  to  abandon 
the  search  ;  and  having  ascertained  from  one  of  the  oldest 
inhabitants  that  an  old  place  lay  in  ruins  some  ten  miles  dis- 
tant, they  proceeded  in  search  of  it  ;  when,  on  an  eminence 
overlooking  the  river,  a  crumbling  house  was  found  buried 
beneath  a  forest  of  trees,  which  had  formerly  constituted  its 
park,  and  beautiful  enough  for  an  earl's  domains.  His 
inquiries  about  the  neighborhood,  respecting  the  tenants  of 
the  old  place,  were  readily  answered  ;  and  having  discovered 
that  a  family  had  settled  themselves,  free  of  rent,  in  the  rear 
of  the  building,  and  that  "  Owl  Nest,"  as  the  people  called  it, 
bore  a  reputation  for  ghosts  and  hobgoblins,  he  concluded 
that  his  ancestral  mansion  was  scarcely  worth  the  pains  he  had 
taken  to  find  it.  But  the  romance  of  the  undertaking  inspired 
him — so  with  the  introduction  of  an  old  negro,  who  looked 
solenm  at  the  idea  of  an  exploration  of  the  spooky  chambers  of 
a  house,  he  reconnoitered  where  only  the  bats  had  had  access 
for  many  years.  He  "  wondered,"  likewise,  in  a  lugubrious 
manner,  "  how  Planter  Raven  could  have  settled  himself  in  the 
kitchen,  but  he  had  been  known,"  CufQe  said,  "  to  live  m  a 
house  where  there  had  been  three  murders,  and  a  graveyard  of 
ghosts,  and  he  reckoned  he  liked  scary  places." 

Nevertheless,  Rufus  and  his  mother  proceeded  towards  the 
"  Hall."  Through  the  dense  shade  of  trees  which  shut  them 
in  from  the  view  without,  they  wandered  for  a  distance,  their 
hearts  scarcely  beating,  so  impressed  were  they  with  the  gloom 
that  overshadowed  them.  The  walk  which  they  took,  pro- 
ceeded from  what  evidently  had  once  been  a  massive  iron  gate, 
which  had  swung  high  on  its  hinges,  the  posts  being  left  in 
their  old  stations.  The  broad  avenue  had  originally  wound  in 
a  serpentine  direction,  as  was  seen  from  the  landmarks  that 
still  existed  ;  but  now  it  was  irregular  and  broken  with  the 
falling  of  trees,  which  had  been  ruthlessly  cut  on  the  premises. 


Isora's    Child.  415 

After  a  long  ramble  through  tlie  deep  greca  park,  they  sud- 
denly opened  to  a  level  spot,  which  lay  on  the  side  of  the 
eminence,  where  the  old  "  Hall "  was  visible.  Here  the  son 
and  his  mother  paused,  for  already  had  the  latter  traced  on 
the  barlv  of  old  trees,  the  names  of  her  family  ;  and  the  days  of 
her  childhood  in  fancy,  had  returned,  while  together,  she  and 
her  brother,  had  played  beneath  the  "  old  elm  tree,"  whose 
rustic  seat  in  the  branches  was  still  left.  Like  a  dream  the 
remembrance  came,  bewildering  but  absorbing.  While  his 
mother  was  roving  in  the  park,  Rufus  went  over  the  place  in 
search  of  other  trees,  whose  rings  told  the  date  of  centuries  ; 
and  on  some  of  them  he  traced  the  names  of  his  maternal 
ancestors,  back  to  the  first  settlement  of  the  State. 

Tiien  together  they  proceeded  towards  the  house,  whose 
spacious,  antique  appearance,  with  its  uable  roof  and  windows, 
jutti)ig  over  a  wide  and  extended  piazza,  startled  them  with 
its  desolate  grandeur.  The  carvings  on  the  porch  entrance 
were  elaborate,  and  the  workmanship  of  the  pillars  antique 
and  curious  ;  on  these  the  owls  and  bats  had  built  their  nests, 
where  swallows  darted  and  ravens  croaked  about,  as  they  flew 
in  and  out  of  their  coverts.  The  upper  windows,  over  which 
jutted  peaks  of  crumbling  wood,  novv  covered  with  moss  and 
ivy,  were  formed  of  diamond -shaped  lights,  and  swung  open 
in  opposite  directions,  the  most  of  which  had  been  battered 
and  broken.  The  same  shaped  windows  continued  about  the 
house,  though  with  some  difference  below  ;  there  they  were 
larger  and  more  richly  carved.  Many  of  these  quaint  land- 
marks gave  evidence  of  English  workmanship,  brought  to  adorn 
this  then  stupendous  castle  of  the  forest. 

They  went  within,  and  were  struck  with  the  dilapidated 
beauty  of  the  spacious  rooms,  so  long  deserted  by  any  human 
occupant.  The  shutters  showed  evidence  of  having  banged 
against  the  casements,  and  sent  within  the  fragments  of  glass 
and  wood,  that  lay  scattered  on  a  floor  made  of  regular  layers 
of  satin  wood,  now  streaked  and  spotted  by  the  mildew  of 
time.  The  high  mantel-pieces  were  of  carved  oak,  and  corres- 
ponded with  the  cornices,  which  represented  oak  leaves  and 
acorns,  now  so  full  of  dust  and  cobwebs,  that  but  little  of  the 
workmanship  was  visible. 

The  broad  hall  which  divided  the  spacious  rooms  extended 
through  the  house,  separating  on  each  side  a  continuous  row 
of  apartments,  varying  in  size,  and  all  equally  neglected. 


416  Isora's    Child. 

One  of  the  wings  had  been  seemhiglj  used  as  a  chapel,  and 
the  one  corresponding  to  it,  evidently  by  its  inserted  shelves 
and  niches,  as  a  library.  The  niches  were  at  equal  distances 
apart,  and  broken  pieces  of  sculpture  still  stood  in  thera.  In 
one,  a  figure  was  complete,  all  but  the  top  of  the  skull,  in 
which  a  bird  had  built  his  nest  ;  and  as  the  child  of  the  man- 
sion stepped  into  the  room  where  she  was  born,  the  shrill  croak 
of  a  raven  met  her  ear.  The  black  wings  of  the  bird  unfolded, 
after  several  gyrations  around  the  desolate  room,  poised  on  a 
pillar  upon  which  her  head  leaned,  and  after  fluttering  in  evi- 
dent terror,  escaped  through  one  of  the  broken  panes. 

Mrs.  Linden  was  not  superstitious,  but  the  bird  of  ill  omen 
had  left  the  hue  of  his  dark  wing  on  her  spirit.  She  turned 
sorrowfully,  and  passed  through  the  hall.  From  this  wide 
opening,  a  spacious  view  was  presented,  of  woodland,  moun- 
tain, and  valley.  Terrace  after  terrace,  led  downwards  into 
mysterious  paths,  where  they  now  had  no  time  to  wander. 

The  mother  and  son  were  satisfied  ;  they  saw  that  the  hand 
of  industry  and  the  niagic  touch  of  *gold,  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  restore  the  beauty  of  the  old  family  mansion  ;  and 
to  render  it  a  residence  even  more  attractive  than  of  old. 
With  subdued  reverence,  she  who  had  been  the  darling  of  an 
aristocratic  house,  the  petted  idol  and  heiress  of  great  wealth, 
now  passed  from  the  hall  of  her  ancestors,  with  an  humble  step, 
feeling  the  utter  worthlessness  of  family  pride,  the  hollowness 
of  the  world\  homage,  and  certainty  of  change  in  an  epheme- 
ral existence— that  knows  no  abiding-place,  until  the  spirit 
"  shufiles  off  its  mortal  coil,"  and  seeks  its  eternal  home  in  the 
mansions  of  everlasting  rest. 

Their  ride  home  was  pleasant,  and  E,osa  Xeville,  in  her  gol- 
den days  of  childhood,  or  in  the  rosier  ones  of  riper  years,  never 
slept  more  peaceably  in  her  halls  of  pride,  than  in  the  little  log- 
house  in  the  southern  wilderness,  where  she  had  learned  that 
true  wisdom  consists  in  integrity  of  purpose  ;  and  the  peace  of 
this  world,  in  the  subjection  of  false  pride  ;  in  a  conscience 
void  of  offence,  and  that  "  better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs,  where 
love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox,  and  hatred  therewith," 

For  the  succeeding  year,  Rufus,  for  so  we  like  to  call  him, 
devoted  much  of  his  time  and  energy  to  repairing  and  making 
visible  the 'beauty  of  his  ancestral  home.  Skillful  architects 
were  procured  to  refurbish  the  rich  carvings,  and  to  restore 
the  dusty  and  cracked  ceilings  to  new  lustre  and  beauty.    The 


Isoka's    Child.  417 

oldLird-liatclimcnts  were  ousted  of  their  tenants,  and  repainted 
with  a  subdued  color  ;  and  the  diamond-shaped  windows  made 
brilliant  in  their  polished  casings,  with  mirrored  panes,  that 
comported  with  the  old-fashioned  elegance  of  the  mansion. 
Every  oak-leaf  and  acorn,  stood  out  from  the  shadow  of  its 
burnished  foundation,  while  the  panelling  below  was  restored, 
as  if  by  magic,  to  its  old  richness  of  coloring  The  walls  were 
painted  as  nearly  their  original  color,  as  patches  existing  of  it 
could  be  distinguished,  bringing  out  their  ashen  hue  more  deli' 
cate  and  light,  perhaps,  than  of  old.  The  broad  oaken  stair-case 
only  needed  the  hand  of  skill ;  and  the  li})rary  came  forth  with 
a  resurrection  of  its  comfortable  antiquity,  in  a  state  of  prime- 
val richness,  with  the  exception  of  the  sculptured  divinities, 
models  of  which  were  sent  abroad  for  imitation.  The  ravens 
no  longer  knew  their  home,  nor  the  swallows  their  nests — the 
owls  hooted  in  vain  for  their  gloomy  lodgments,  and  where  the 
cobweb-dust  of  years  had  rested,  old-fashioned  drapery  now 
hung  in  heavy  folds.  Over  the  windows,  roses  wreathed  their 
young  buds,  instead  of  the  tendrils  of  the  poisoned  ivy  and 
cypress,  once  telling  of  desolation  and  death. 

From  hidden  places  the  sou  of  the  Nevilles  drew  forth  dusty 
worm-eaten  canvass,  which  the  hand  of  the  regenerator  revived, 
showing  original  portraits  of  the  family  owners,  who  had  long 
since  slept  in  their  graves.  Each  piece  of  furniture,  window, 
or  casement,  which  told  of  the  "olden  time"  of  America,  or 
derived  its  value  from  its  importation  from  the  old  world,  was 
retained  in  its  original  state  ;  while  out  of  the  ashes  of  anti- 
quity arose  the  new  and  beautiful. 

Oaken  chairs,  and  rustic  willow-seats,  which  had  here  found 
their  home  for  generations,  were  retained,  though  in  a  state  of 
half  preservation  ;  and  over  the  exterior  was  cast  a  hue  of 
sombre  richness. 

The  mansion  completed,  Rufus  turned  his  attention  to  the 
grounds,  more  grand,  gloomy,  and  imposing,  in  their  noble 
forest  trees,  than  attractive  with  tasteful  culture.  The  hand 
of  nature  had  been  for  many  years  the  chief  cultivator  of  the 
extensive  park,  where  deer  roved  in  uncontrolled  freedom,  so 
quiet  and  dense  was  the  shade.  Rufus  Wilton  had  an  inherent 
passion  for  the  gloomy  and  the  grand  in  scenery,  and  would 
not  have  cut  away  one  limb  of  a  noble  oak,  or  a  branch  of  the 
lordly  graceful  elm,  for  anything  but  the  total  exclusion  of 
Heaven's  sunlight  from  the  windows  of  the  mansion 

18* 


418  Isoea's    Child. 

He  left  the  noble  forest  archway,  which  formed  its  owa 
Gothic  roof,  untouched  ;  it  seemed  to  him  hke  a  "fretted  aisle 
in  the  dim  woods,"  where  the  choristers  of  Heaven  sung  their 
bird  chants  ;  and  like  sacrilege  to  disturb  them,  or  their 
homes.  But  he  brought  roses  and  rare  flowers  from  all  climes 
to  adorn  the  columns  and  bower-like  places. 

One  spot,  quite  remote  from  the  house,  a  wild  ravine, 
he  had  sought  out,  where  he  found  strange  natural  beauties. 

Here,  where  the  lofty  hemlock  showed  his  crown,  as  king  of 
the  forest,  and  the  pine  rose  clear  on  the  sky — among  thickets 
of  blossoming  laurel,  and  the  spreading  leaves  of  the  beech 
and  live  oak,  a  succession  of  cascades  fell  from  the  sides  of  a 
green  mountain,  as  if  by  some  magic  power — so  full  of  wild 
beauty,  and  fairy-like  effect,  it  passed  into  an  amber  rivulet 
below. 

As  far  as  possible,  all  this  natural  beauty  was  left  in  its 
wild  state,  though  the  hand  of  the  artist  and  cultivator  was 
seen  in  the  clearing  of  the  underbrush,  and  on  the  green 
velvety  carpet  where  no  stick  or  stone  offended  the  eye,  until 
in  terrace  after  terrace,  it  reached  the  bank  of  the  rivulet. 
Here,  within  sight  of  the  gushing  water-falls,  within  sound  of 
their  soothing  melody,  he  built  an  arbor,  which  he  covered 
with  flowering  vines  and  roses.  The  white  petals  of  the 
Le  Marque  rose,  mingled  with  those  of  the  mnltiflora  ;  and 
at  the  base  of  the  fairy  temple,  the  "cloth  of  gold,"  and  the 
rich  petals  of  the  cape  jessamine,  opened  to  the  morning  sun 
their  buds  and  glittering  blossoms.  Jp.ts  d'eau  also  threw 
up  their  fresh,  sparkling  dews  ;  and  artificial  lakes,  with  gold 
and  silver  fish,  lay  hedged  in  by  mossy  hills  ;  but  far  prettier 
to  Rufus  were  the  little  silvery  streams,  where  beautifnl  trout 
sportively  had  lived,  without  fear  of  the  angler.  Here,  natu- 
ral rivulets  were  allowed  their  play,  and  not  a  deer  was  permit- 
ted to  be  shot,  that  coursed  in  freedom  from  rock  to  woodland. 
At  length,  the  chief  of  his  work  was  done,  and  he  impa- 
tiently awaited  the  arrival  of  its  liberal  and  wealthy  owner. 

For  himself,  his  little  log  cottage  contained  all  that  was 
now  valuable  to  him  in  Virginia — his  dear  mother  and  his  books. 
Each  day  that  he  lived,  the  ambition  arose  in  his  heart  to  fit 
hmiself  for  a  sphere  of  usefulness,  that  should  bring  its  own 
reward  ;  and  earn  him,  if  not  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  in  the 
still  depths  of  an  approving  conscience,  the  character  to  which 
he  aspired.     But  he  needed  sympathy  to  aid  him  onward,  and 


Is  oka's    Child.  419 

his  spirit  hourly  roved  to  her,  who  was  his  day-star  of  hope. 
Warm-hearted  friends  entertained  hira  in  their  hospitable 
homes,  and  in  the  sunshine  of  society  he  often  tried  to  cheer 
away  the  period  of  his  probation  ;  but  at  times  his  yearning^ 
heart  refused  to  be  comforted.  He  had  heard  that  a  throng  of 
suitors  were  at  the  feet  of  his  beloved  Cora,  and  knew  that  her 
father's  increased  pride  and  growing  ambition  for  his  daughter, 
placed  her  still  further  beyond  his  reach.  But  he  firmly 
resolved  that  when  he  felt  his  position  such,  that  he  could  offer 
her  a  home  with  confidence,  and  without  humiliation,  that  a 
parent's  false  pride  should  no  longer  prevent  his  seeking  her 
for  his  wife.  And  that  hour  had  come,  though  the  modesty 
of  his  character  still  made  him  feel  that  the  name  his  father 
had  disgraced  was  yet  unredeemed.  His  first  object  was  to 
pay  yearly  a  sum  to  the  estate  of  which  he  had  spent  a  part, 
though  innocently  ;  and  he  hoped,  in  time,  to  liquidate  the 
debt.  His  genius  had  already  won  him  the  laurels  awarded 
to  the  contributor  to  science — his  industry  and  fidelity  to  his 
profession,  confidence  and  respect,  and  his  honorable  deport- 
ment, the  character  of  the  entire  gentleman. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Cora  went  on  with  her  usual  life  at  the 
now  gaily  thronged  "  Park,"  where  visitors  swarmed  during 
the  summer  months,  and  as  late  in  the  season  as  they  found 
the  air  of  the  country  useful,  and  the  agreeable  company  there 
assembled,  inspiring  and  gay.  With  all,  Cora  was  a  favorite. 
Her  freedom  from  assumption  forbade  emotions  of  jealousy  ; 
and  one  could  scarcely  envy  her  wealth  and  position,  she 
seemed  to  regard  herself  of  so  little  value — excepting  as 
affording  her  the  means  to  give  happiness  to  others.  The 
indifference  shown  to  her  many  suitors,  excited  much  surprise  ; 
for  no  one  saw  any  evidence  of  deep  regret  for  the  one  from 
whom  she  was  deemed  separated.  Her  sanguine  temperament 
was  kept  buoyant  by  hope,  and  fed  weekly  by  the  long  letters 
received  from  her  absent  lover.  She  rarely  mentioned  hira, 
excepting  to  old  Goody,  to  whom  she  read  parts  of  his 
epistles  ;  and  whom  she  made  her  confidant,  and  the  partaker 
of  her  joys,  and  anxieties.  The  flowers  that  she  and  Rufus 
had  gathered  together,  were  always  recognized  in  their  old 
familiar  haunts,  and  their  perfume  came  breathing  from  every 
fond  sheet  that  she  j-xmned  to  Virginia. 

The  marriage  of  Mr.  Clarendon  had  surprised  her  much  ; 
and  she  longed  for  an   acquaintance  with  his  bride,  of  whom 


420  Isoka's    Child. 

she  had  heard  such  equivocal  reports.  Some  pronounced  her 
bewitchingly  lovely,  with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  that  added 
an  irresistible  charm  to  her  voice,  with  manners  piquant,  and 
interesting  ;  while  others  denounced  her  as  wil8,  impulsive, 
and  uncultivated  ;  but  all  acknowledged  her  surpassingly 
beautiful. 

Cora  had  no  idea  whom  he  had  wedded,  having  simply 
learned  by  a  rumor  of  his  private  marriage  to  a  foreigner,  and 
of  his  wedding  tour  with  his  bride. 

But  not  long  after  their  return,  a  note  was  received  from 
Mr.  Clarendon,  with  an  invitation  for  herself  and  her  father  to 
visit  them,  while  he  apologized  for  omitting  the  usnal  ceremo- 
nies on  such  occasions,  in  consequence  of  the  deHcate  health  of 
his  wife.  The  actual  truth,  as  the  reader  may  imagine,  lay  in 
Flora's  aversion  to  form  and  etiquette. 

Accordingly,  a  fortnight  after  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Clarendon  at  their  residence,  Cora  and  her  father  proceeded  to 
New  York,  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  bride. 

Flora  and  her  husband  sat  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms  at 
the  time,  awaiting  a  summons  to  dinner.  But  as  it  yet  lacked 
a  half  hour  of  the  period,  they  retired  to  one  of  the  recesses, 
and  amused  themselves  by  the  attractions  and  curiosities  there 
arranged.  Flora  was  airily  dressed — a  costun^e  unnsual  with 
her,  while  over  her  neck  and  shoulders  a  scarf  of  lace  was 
gathered,  and  crossed  on  her  bosom.  Her  arms  were  undraped, 
and  adorned  with  ornaments  of  coral.  Her  hair  was  wound  in 
ample  folds,  loosely  about  her  head,  falling  low  upon  her  neck, 
without  decoration. 

She  had  not  heard  the  announcement  of  visitors,  and  as  Cora 
and  her  father  entered  the  opposite  room,  which  was  heavily 
curtained,  her  person  and  attitude  were  fully  revealed. 

One  arm  and  hand  rested  on  her  husband,  while  she  watched 
his  admiration  of  a  scene  to  which  she  asked  his  attention. 

Cora  was  fascinated  as  with  a  picture,  and  as  she  came  for- 
ward with  her  father  towards  the  dark-haired  bride,  her  own 
fairy-like  beauty,  with  its  golden  locks  and  blue  eyes,  afforded 
the  contrast  of  starry  night,  to  Eden's  sunniest  morning. 

The  Colonel  was  stately  and  elegant,  and  in  his  blandest 
manner  approached  Mr.  Clarendon,  who  came  forward  to  greet 
his  friends.  Then  turning,  he  presented  them  to  Mrs.  Clarendon. 

The  latter  turned  her  eyes  languidly,  indifferently  upon  her 
guests,  as  the  Colonel  addressed  her.      But  at  the  first  glunr.e 


Isoka's    Guild.  421 

she  had  disliked  him,  and  if  a  statue  could  be  supposed  to  give 
a  superb  bend  of  the  head,  and  quietly  sink  back  into  its  cold 
repose,  so  Flora  met  the  salutations  of  Colonel  Livingston  ; 
then,  with  scarce  a  movement  of  her  eyes,  she  was  attracted  by 
the  appearance  of  Cora,  and  at  once  came  towards  her.  With 
both  her  hands  she  clasped  the  gloved  fingers  presented,  and 
while  the  radiance  of  delight  overspread  her  face,  said,  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  you." 

The  tone  in  which  she  spoke  was  so  natural  and  genuine, 
that  Cora,  from  sympathy,  exchanged  the  greeting  as  cordially. 
Mr.  Clarendon  was  so  much  chagrined  with  his  wife's  reception 
of  the  Colonel,  that  he  scarcely  observed  her  address  to  Cora, 
but  devoted  himself  to  his  old  friend. 

In  the  meantime.  Flora  sat  looking  into  Cora's  eyes,  scarcely 
replying  to  her  questions  relative  to  her  journey,  but  after 
seeming  awhile  to  listen,  said  earnestly  : 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  and  see  me  before  ?  I  know  that  I 
shall  love  you — I  did  not  see  you  at  first,  you  floated  in  like  a 
spirit." 

"  Because  you  were  occupied,"  replied  Cora,  smiling.  "  I  saw 
you  from  the  parlor,  with  your  husband." 

"You  have  known  him  before — 1  saw  that — pray  where, 
Miss  Livingston  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  was  an  old  friend  of  papa's." 

Flora  looked  up  at  the  Colonel  very  much  as  she  would  to  a 
Gothic  ruin,  impressing  her  with  solemn  grandeur.  Then  drop- 
[)ing  her  eyes,  slie  seemed  absorbed,  while  she  observed  Cora's 
pretty  foot  ;  when  she  raised  them  they  encountered  her  hus- 
band's, who  directly  understood  that  she  wished  him  to  come 
near  her.  But  he  w^as  anxious  for  an  accquaintance  to  ripen 
between  his  wife  and  Cora,  knowing  that  society  only  would 
accustom  her  to  its  forms  ;  so  he  left  her  to  entertain  a  stran- 
ger, for  the  first  time,  alone. 

But  Cora  was  no  bugbear  to  the  timid  Flora,  although  at 
first,  she  did  little  but  feast  her  eyes  on  her  delicate  beauty  as 
composedly  as  if  she  was  looking  at  a  rare  flower  ;  still  her 
sympathy  and  admiration  had  been  awakened,  and,  like  a  child, 
slie  wanted  to  evince  her  love  undisguisedly. 

Cora  was  fascinated  with  the  artlessness  of  Flora,  and  though, 
in  another,  she  would  have  been  more  amazed  than  gratified  a1 
such  impulsive  manners,  she  felt  that  the  warblings  of  a  forest 
bird  would  as  soon  oft'cnd  her,  as  the  guileless  droppings  from 


422  IsoRA^s    Child. 

Flora's  lips,  although  she  would  not  have  advised  their  imi- 
tation. 

At  Flora's  invitation,  Cora  followed  her  from  room  to  room, 
being  carried  like  a  child  over  her  iiouse,  where  she  seemed 
no  more  its  mistress  than  her  nightingale, 

"  1  forgot,"  said  she,  after  leaving  the  parlors,  "  that  I  did 
not  offer  you  some  cake  and  wine — if  you  will  come  into  my 
sitting  room,  I  will  break  a  cocoa-nut — and  we  will  drink  the 
milk  together,  and  then  Sappho  can  have  some  too — or  per- 
haps you  will  like  to  see  the  library — I  used  to  sit  there  when 
I  was  a  child." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Cora,  looking  at  the  brilliant  color  that 
flushed  Flora's  usually  pale  cheek,  "  when  a  child  !" 

"  Why,  did  you  not  know  that  my  husband  adopted  me 
when  I  was  a  little  girl  ?" 

**  Pardon  me,  you  are  a  stranger  to  me,  and  I  was  ignorant 
of  this,  but  no  one  more  fully  rejoices  in  his  happiness  than 
I  do." 

Flora-  wondered  if  any  one  had  ever  loved  Cora  as  well. 
But  the  next  moment  she  thought  of  the  cocoa-nut  and  the 
library,  to  which  she  hastened,  and  then  rung  for  her  feast. 
She  then  persuaded  her  visitor  to  sit  down  by  the  open  door, 
with  her,  when  gathering  the  big  head  of  Sappho  in  her  lap, 
she  winiiingly,  and  freely  conversed  with  her  companion. 

The  servant  came  with  the  broken  nut,  when  she  insisted 
upon  Cora's  partaking  of  it  with  her,  while  she  occasionally 
gave  the  dog  a  piece.  She  readily  entered  into  a  familiar  con- 
versation with  Cora,  who  saw,  notwithstanding  Flora's  eccen- 
tricities, that  she  possessed  character  and  feeling,  with  a  mind 
that  soared  beyond  the  vanities  of  life  ;  and  that  beneath  her 
childish  manner,  the  under  current  of  thought  was  fresh  and 
deep. 

This  she  drew,  also,  from  the  searching  gaze  of  her  spiritual 
eyes,  the  enthusiasm  with  which  she  spoke  of  her  favorite  au- 
thors, and  the  intelligence  with  which  she  discussed  the  subjects 
on  which  they  treated  ;  still,  to  the  casual  observer.  Flora,  ap- 
peared often  wild,  reckless,  and  totally  regardless  of  all,  but 
her  own  whims — yet  one  who  scanned  her  closely  would  find 
that  her  actions  were  biased  by  nice  discrimination,  and  an 
intuitive  sense  of  the  good  and  intellectual,  while  slie  scorned 
the  pomposity  of  the  arrogant  and  assuming,  and  felt  supreme 
contempt  for  the  mere  devotee  to  fashion.    Still,  had  she  been 


423 

bred  in  the  observance  of  strict  etiquette,  lier  preferences  would 
not  have  been  so  openly  exhibited  ;  in  her  own  mind,  she  would 
have  jud<2:ed,  without  openfy  manifesting  her  tastes. 

She  turned  without  apology  from  tlie  face  that  bore  a  con- 
tracted and  sinister  expression,  to  the  frank  and  open-hearted, 
as  the  flower  shuts  its  leaves  at  the  approach  of  a  poisonous 
insect,  and  opens  them  to  the  sunshine  of  Heaven. 

Thus,  this  child  of  nature  won  her  favorites,  while  she  made 
enemies  in  the  circle  where  her  husband  had  been  so  popular. 

We  do  not  hold  her  up  as  an  example  for  imitation,  but  as 
a  human  being,  with  an  instinctive  sense  of  the  good  and  beau- 
tiful, without  that  education  and  training,  that  would  have 
better  taught  her  to  overlook  folly  and  vain  pride,  with  more 
charity,  while,  by  her  own  example,  she  showed  herself  supe- 
rior to  those,  she  might  justly  condemn.  The  bent  of  Cora's 
mind  was  different — to  all,  she  exhibited  her  own  natural 
sweetness  of  temper.  The  person  that  she  despised,  was  never 
wounded  by  her  severity  or  coldness,  for  she  never  forgo o 
that  "  to  err  is  human,  to  forgive  divine."  And  no  one  left 
her  society  without  feeling  emulated  to  higher  aims,  by  the 
nobleness  and  simplicity  that  shone  forth  in  her  face  and  cha- 
racter. 

But  Flora  and  Cora  were  differently  constituted  by  nature. 
To  the  former  a  life  of  piety  and  virtue  had  been  like  the  hill 
of  difficulty  to  Bunyan's  Christian.  She  had  fierce  struggles 
with  her  own  heart,  before  she  could  turn  her  back  upon  error, 
ind  press  forward  to  good  ;  her  stormy  passions  had  been  like 
an  army  of  antagonists,  to  conquer,  and  now,  with  all  her  firm 
resolutions,  with  the  victory  which  she  once  obtained  over 
self,  with  her  humble  trust  in  Divine  aid,  still  there  were 
times  when  uncontrolled  emotions  overwhelmed  her  with  their 
powerful  sway.  Neither  was  charity  her  sweetest  grace — while 
it  spread  like  a  mantle  over  the  character  of  Cora  It  was  far 
easier  for  the  latter  to  be  good.  She  was  naturally  lovely  and 
serene  as  the  breath  of  summer,  and  like  the  falling  of  gentle 
dews,  her  s))irit  rained  down  its  sweet  influences. 

When  Mr.  Clarendon  and  the  Colonel  found  the  ladies,  they 
were  in  earnest  conversation,  nnd  had  already  made  rapid 
advance  towards  friendship.  Flora's  lack  of  ceremony  with 
the  Colonel  and  Cora,  had  somewhat  mortified  her  husband  ; 
but  when  he  found  that  in  addition  to  rudeness  to  his  old 
friend,  she  had  ran  awoy  with  his  daughter  for  the  sake  of 


424:  Isoka's    Child. 

"  child's  play,"  as  he  deemed  the  repast,  so  unceremoniously 
gotten  up  and  partaken  of,  he  was  more  vexed  than  amused. 

**  Flora,  what  is  all  this  ?"  said  he.  "  Miss  Cora,"  he  conti- 
nued, forcing  a  smile,  "you  must  not  tell  how  my  wife  receives 
her  bridal  calls,  and  how  she  entertains  her  visitors,  and  in 
what  company,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  dog  that  Flora  was 
feeding  with  the  nut. 

"Just  eat  some  with  us,  Gardy,  and  our  sin  will  be  for- 
given. I  knew,  as  soon  as  I  looked  at  your  friend,"  said  Flora, 
with  her  eyes  on  Cora,  "  that  she  would  like,  as  well  as  myself, 
a  little  freedom.  We  never  should  have  become  acquainted 
playing  etiquette." 

"I  suppose,  Mrs.  Clarendon,"  said  the  Colonel,  with 
courtesy,  "that  you  have  become  quite  wearied  with  cere- 
mony, since  your  marriage,  so  much  is  involved  on  such  occa- 
sions." 

"I  never  allow,  sir,"  said  Flora,  "occasions  to  rule 
me,  when  nothing  more  important  is  involved,  thau  cere- 
mony." 

"But  you  will  not  deny.  Flora,"  said  her  husband,  "  that- 
trifles  make  up  the  sum  of  one's  happiness  ;  so  when  you  divest 
life  of  its  ceremonies,  you  subtract  much  of  its  life-giving 
principle.  You  might  as  well  take  the  laws  from  the  State,  a:? 
from  society  its  code  of  etiquette." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  Mrs.  Clarendon  thinks 
that  there  is  too  much  instability  in  the  goddess  queen  to 
make  a  consistent  code." 

"  Indisputable,  if  not  consistent,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  look- 
ing at  his  wife. 

"  I  submit  to  no  laws  but  those  of  reason  and  right,"  replied 
Flora. 

"  What  do  you  hear  from  Yirgiuia  ?"  questioned  Mr 
Clarendon,  turning  the  subject. 

"  My  news  is  all  good,  Mr.  Clarendon." 

Flora  looked  up  inquiringly,  but  her  glance  was  only  met 
by  significant  looks  between  her  husband  and  Cora.  The 
intelligence  manifested,  brought  the  former  to  the  side  of  his 
once  fair  enslaver,  while  he  said,  "  Miss  Cora,  I  believe  this  is 
your  first  visit  to  my  house,"  but  for  some  reason  that  over- 
powered him,  as  he  witnessed  the  elegance  of  her  bearing,  in 
contrast  with  the  wild  freedom  of  his  wife,  he  did  not  imme- 
diately finish  his  sentence,  but  thought  of  his  former  ambition, 


Isoka's    Child.  425 

and  pursuit  of  one  who  so  strongly  contrasted  with  her  whom 
he  had  wedded.  He  wondered  if  her  influence  and  example 
would  correct  the  defect,  so  palpable  to  hitn  in  his  wife's 
demeanor,  the  only  one  that  he  saw  in  his  petted  Flora, 
How  perfect,  he  thought,  she  would  become  with  the  manners 
of  Cora,  and  her  instinctive  sense  of  propriety.  "I  believe 
I  did  not  finish  my  remark,"  he  concluded,  "  that  this  was  your 
first  visit  to  us,  but  that  I  hope  we  may  persuade  you  to  spend 
a  few  weeks  with  us  this  coming  winter."  Mr.  Clarendon 
looked  towards  Flora  for  her  response,  but,  for  the  first  time, 
she  seemed  absent  in  mind,  while  he  met  a  look,  which  said 
plainly,  "  Have  I  wearied  you  ?"  He  trembled  lest  corres- 
ponding words  would  follow,  but  Flora  was  only  silent  ;  she 
lost  suddenly  her  gaiety,  and  sat  without  speaking,  until  Cora 
rose  to  go — then  in  a  low  tone,  as  she  again  took  Cora's  hand, 
said, 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  again  to  see  me — I  love  you — but  if 
yon  were  always  with  me,  my  husband  might  love  you  too.'^ 
The  natural  sweetness  with  which  these  words  were  uttered,  much 
impressed  Cora  ;  and  she  could  not  help  fearing  when  she  met 
the  earnest  eyes  of  the  young  loving  wife,  that  her  happiness 
was  critically  situated,  with  her  hitherto  gallant  husband. 

Still  habit  could  not  resist  the  characteristic  reply  from  Mr. 
Clarendon,  and  when  she  bade  the  latter  adieu,  he  said,  in  an 
under  tone,  "  It  is  not  strange  that  my  wife  has  her  fears, 
such  a  visit  might  be  dangerous." 

Flora  was  now  bowing  off  the  Colonel,  and  Cora  had  time 
to  answer, 

"  The  shield  of  truth  and  love  protects  you.  It  is  a  good 
one,  and  I  know  that  you  appreciate  it.  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  so  happy.     You  have  found  a  treasure." 

"  Then  you  will  often  come  to  see  us  ?  Wilton  won't  be 
jealous  now." 

"  No,  he  is  doubly  protected,"  said  Cora,  half  vexed,  but 
the  frank  rejoinder  dissipated  the  feeling. 

"Ti]at  is  true.  Miss  Cora,  and  I  only  wish  you  both  the 
sani'^  amount  of  happiness  that  you  leave  here." 

Cora  appreciated  the  honest  sentiment  that  came  at  last, 
and  forgave  the  unwelcome  gallantry.  By  this  time,  the  Colo- 
nel had  frozen  stitf  with  Flora's  dignity,  which  half  pleased, 
and  half  amazed  him,  for  he  had  but  just  recovered  from  the 
shock    received  from  her  sudden    retreat  with    his   daughter 


426  I  s  0  11  A '  s    Child. 

from  his  presence  ;  on  the  whole,  he  much  preferred  her 
stateliness — he  thought  it  admirably  comported  with  her  style 
of  beauty. 

Accordingly,  he  left  her  with  many  courtly  professions,  and 
"hoped  that  she  and  Mr.  Clarendon  wonld  soon  honor  them 
■with  a  visit  at  the  Park,"  to  which  invitation  Flora  gave 
another  statue  bend,  and  looked  up  to  see  if  the  Gothic  win- 
dow had  closed.  Flora  might  have  been  more  courteous,  but 
she  thought  that  Cora  and  her  husband  had  been  certainly  an 
hour  making  parting  compliments,  and  without  waiting  for  the 
conclusion  of  the  Colonel's  final  speech,  turned  towards  Cora, 
who  met  her  with  a  smile  that  dissipated  her  discomfiture. 

Mr.  Clarendon  accompanied  Cora  to  the  carriage,  the 
Colonel  following,  which  arrangement  seemed  to  Flora  unne- 
cessary. But  the  vehicle  soon  rolled  away,  when  the  husband, 
with  a  tap  on  the  shoulder  of  his  wife,  asked  her,  "If  it  was 
not  late,  and  time  for  dinner  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Flora,  demurely,  "that  rests  upon 
Benson.  Miss  Dorothy  and  I  don't  have  much  communion. 
She  is  so  tall  and  grim,  I  am  afraid  of  her." 

"  But  you  are  not  short,  Daisy,  if  you  are  not  so  grim — not 
quite  to  my  shoulder  though.  Why  do  you  look  so  solemn, 
are  von  hungry  or  vexed  ?" 

"Both." 

"  Well  then,  we'll  have  a  game  of  chess  before  dinner." 

Mr.  Clarendon  had  spared  no  effort  since  his  return,  to 
make  his  home  attractive.  Flora's  ingenuousness  and  simpli- 
city of  character,  that  excited  so  much  remark  from  those  who 
had  laid  their  snares  for  the  rich  bachelor,  amused  and  inspired 
him.  Her  moods  were  so  varied,  that  he  was  kept  in  excite- 
ment always  to  understand  them,  which  relieved  their  inter- 
course from  the  tameness  that  might  have  ensued  from  a  more 
equable  match.  He  had  but  one  serious  annoyance  to  mar 
his  happiness,  and  that  he  hoped  in  time  to  sul)due.  Much  as 
he  was  amused  by  the  novelty  and  freshness  of  Flora  in  private 
life,  in  public  he  wished  her  au  fait  in  the  world's  estimation. 
But  Flora  gave  little  heed  to  his  hints  for  improvement;  but  she 
had,  with  all  her  happiness,  one  new  and  peculiar  trial.  Miss 
Dorothy  Benson  valiantly  disputed  the  reign  of  her  young 
mistress.  She  was  a  tall,  raw-boned  woman,  of  the  age  of 
fifty,  scrupulously  nice  and  systematic ;  and  violently  opposed 
to   any  innovations  on  her  old  mode  of  housekeeping.     "  Iler 


427 


ways,"  she  said,  '"  liad  always  suited  her  old  mistress,  and 
Mister  Louis  too,  and  she  tliouo:ht  it  would  be  a  pretty  how 
to  do,  if  she  couldn't  regulate  matters  without  a  new  one,  that 
had  always  set  the  house  topsyturvy,  since  she  came  into  it. 
But  it  was  no  more  than  she  expected,  such  a  spiled  child  as 
she  always  was.  And  didn't  she,  to  be  sure,  as  soon  as  she 
come  from  towering  on't,  go  to  letten  the  sun  and  breezes 
into  the  blue  parlor,  fit  for  a  princess,  instead  of  a  singin 
forriner,  born  nobody  knew  how,  or  v»^here  ;  the  same  room 
that  old  mistress  kept  to  nap  in,  though,  the  Lord  knew  !  she 
wouldn't  know  it  now — such  a  baby-house  as  it  was.  And  what 
was  worse  than  all,  the  old  dimity  curtains  must  come  down 
from  her  old  mistress'  bed-room,  to  be  turned  into  a  silver  cage 
for  the  new  canary,  that  did  nothing  but  sing  and  plume  her- 
self;  then,  too,  she  must  take  her  scat  in  the  old  library,  and 
fling  about  the  books,  and  open  the  blinds,  and  loll  on  the 
sofas,  and  poke  over  flowers.  How  Mister  Louis  could  abide 
it  all,  she  couldn't  see,  for  there  hadn't  been  a  bit  of  quiet  in 
the  house  since  she  came  in  it  ;  she  thought  when  she  run 
away,  that  was  the  end  of  her  ;  but  lo  !  and  behold  !  all  to 
once,  she  came  as  grand  as  a  cpieen  back,  and  Mister  Louis' 
wife  ;  and  such  a  time  as  had  been  made  for  her  !  Lord  !  she 
thought  he'd  married  a  court-lady  !  To  be  sure,  she  was 
pretty  enough,  but  so  witches  was  pretty  too,  and  she  was 
Bure,  she'd  witched  Mister  Louis,  then  too,"  Miss  Dorothy  con- 
imued  to  the  cook,  "just  as  if  she  knew  anything  about  order- 
ing things  up  or  down.  She  had  hoped,  if  Mister  Louis  ever 
married  at  all,  which  she  saw  no  use  in,  that  it  would  have  been 
to  some  one  that  could  respect  a  woman  of  her  standing  ;  but 
I  expect  I  shall' be  ordered  to  shift  dinner-hours  next,  so  that 
the  young  lady  can  have  things  her  own  way."  So  Miss  Ben- 
son daily  raved  to  the  cook,  behind  cupboard  doors,  and  in 
on t-of-l he-way  places,  while  her  young  mistress'  whims  became 
no  fewer  for  the  old  house-keeper's  complaints. 

Flora,  from  education  and  indulgence,  was  exacting  in  little 
matters,  which  she  considered  that  she  had  a  right  to  control, 
thougli  as  yet  she  had  been  too  happy  to  lose  her  sweetness  of 
temper,  with  any  show  of  opposition. 

Still  Miss  Dorothy  annoyed  Flora  with  the  quiet,  decisive 
way  that  she  ruled  the  house,  regardless  of  her  directions, 
because  "  that  was  the  way  things  had  been  managed  for  more 
than   twenty  years."     Flora  was   also    in  an   undccliired  war 


428  Isoka's    Guild. 

about  her  flowers.  After  having  arranged  from  tie  conser 
vatory,  the  choicest  flowers  about  her  rooms,  she  woukl  often 
find  them  missing,  when  she  had  left  them  fresh  and  beautiful, 
without  having  seen  the  energetic  fling  which  propelled  them 
across  the  street,  while  she  anathematized  "  Miss  Clarendon's 
litters,  making  the  house  like  a  garret  of  yarbs,  while  all  she 
could  do  was  to  clean — clean  ;"  then  to  Timothy,  the  waiter, 
she  had  her  outspit.  "  There  used  to  be,"  she  said,  "  a  gen- 
teel smell  of  tobacco,  mornings,  in  the  house,  but  now  'twas 
full  of  posy  smells — then  there  was  the  peaner  always  stretched 
— and  master  a  tuting  on  the  fleute,  to  please  his  pretty  gipsey 
— she  hoped,  she  might  be  transplanted,  fore  anything  smaller 
come  to  muss  up  the  house — she  was  sure  'twas  bad  enough 
now,"  so  Miss  Benson  continued  to  rave  in  a  prudent  tone, 
while  ''setting  the  rooms  to  rights,"  occasionally  thrusting  her 
head  into  the  hall,  and  up  the  stair-case,  to  see  if  anybody  was 
coming — though  she  knew  that  it  would  be  full  three  hours 
before  the  "  silver  cage "  was  opened.  But  when  her  young 
mistress  finally  showed  herself  below,  Benson  was  always  seen 
retreating,  her  eyes  peering  up  to  the  ceiling  with  a  "search- 
ing cobwebs  "  air,  a  look  corresponding  with  the  expression  her 
turned  up  nose  evinced,  for  the  threatened  new  measures  which 
slowly,  but  surely,  foretold  the  conclusion  of  her  reign. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  aware  to  some  extent  of  the  disagreeable 
ways  and  domineering  rule  of  Miss  Dorothy,  but  having  been 
so  long  accustomed  to  them,  and  knowing  her  valuable  services, 
be  did  not  consider  the  fact,  that  his  young  wife's  tastes  might 
seriously  conflict  with  the  old  established  rules,  that  had,  for 
more  than  thirty  years,  regulated  the  household,  and  was 
rather  more  amused  than  annoyed  by  Flora's  vexations,  which 
she  took  no  pains  to  conceal,  but  in  extravagant  terms,  pro- 
nounced Benson  a  "perfect  savage."  He  had  often  watched 
the  contests  between  his  half  imperious  wife,  and  her  defiant 
housekeeper,  but  while  the  clashing  related  to  flowers,  the 
arrangement  of  the  dinner  table,  the  opening,  or  shutting  of 
lattices,  or  the  admission,  or  out-turning  of  Sappho — he  did 
not  interfere.  But  now  a  matter  had  come  up  between  them, 
that  more  affected  his  own  convenience — and  though  he  might 
put  Flora  sometimes  in  a  pet,  himself,  he  began  to  think  that 
he  could  not  permit  another  daily  to  do  so.  And  when  he 
returned  home,  he  liked  not  to  find  her  face  clouded  by  any 
petty  annoyance. 


I  s  o  K  A '  s    Child.  429 

After  Cora  and  her  father  had  left,  and  tlie  game  com- 
menced, Mr.  CUirendon  said  : 

"  I  thouglit  we  were  to  have  dinner  at  five  instead  of  six.'' 

**  That  is  just  as  Benson  pleases,"  said  Flora,  slightly  pout- 
ing. 

''  But  did  you  tell  her  that  you  wished  the  dinner  hour 
changed  ?"  Mr.  Clarendon  felt  the  reproach  somewhat  cast 
upon  himself,  and  although  he  kflew  of  Benson's  underhanded 
dominion,  he  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  her  supremacy. 

"  I  did,"  said  Flora,  playing  with  the  chessmen. 

"  I  have  been  home  an  hour — there  is  no  excuse  for  the 
delay." 

"  Company  has  made  it  seem  a  shorter  period — hasn't  it  ?" 
queried  Flora  too  good  uaturedly  for  her  husband's  present 
humor. 

"  You  are  cool  about  the  matter,  Flora — and  do  not  seem 
disturbed  by  the  annoyance  occasioned  me." 

"I  couldn't  get  the  dinner  myself,"  answered  the  wife — play- 
fully, not  sorry  that  her  husband  had  become  angry  with 
Benson. 

But  Mr.  Clarendon  was  not  alone  vexed  with  the  latter,  he 
was  excited  by  Flora's  indifference.  The  game  half  played,  he 
unceremoniously  wound  it  up,  by  brushing  the  men  off  the 
board,  while  he  rose,  and  rung  the  bell  with  violence.  It  was 
instantly  answered. 

"  Timothy,  why  is  not  dinner  ready  ?"  again  demanded  Mr. 
Clare-ndon  sternly. 

"  It  is  not  yet  six,  sir." 

**  But  your  mistress  directed  the  hour  changed." 

"  Miss  Benson  gave  no  such  orders  to  the  cook." 

"  You  can  go,  Timothy.  Flora,  cannot  these  domestic  mat- 
ters be  remedied  somewhat  ?  I  am  positively  anf>ry." 

"  1  thouglit  so,"  replied  Flora,  tapping  her  foot  on  the  car- 
pet, "  but  it  requires  something  more  than  a  display  of" 

"  Temper — eh  ? — well  perhaps  it  does — what  would  you 
advise,  Minerva  ?" 

"  I  would  like  to  have  you  decide  who  is  mistress  in  this 
house." 

"What  do  you  mean.  Flora  ?  This  is  very  vexatious- 
matters  between  you  and  Benson — her  whims  are  not  easily 
changed." 

"  Nor  to  be  disputed." 


430  Is  oka's    Child. 

"  Why  do  YOU  say  this  ? — you  know  that  you  have  sole 
authority  in  this  house — you  aunoy  me, — positively  Flora." 

"  1  do  not  mean  to,"  said  Flora,  her  voice  half  choked,  and 
her  lip  compressed — "  but — I  have  been  tried,  too.  I  will  not 
be  so  longer." 

Flora  looked  up  with  wounded  feeling,  portrayed  in  her 
manner  and  words. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  softened. 

"  I  mean  that  your  comfort  shall  not  be  marred  by  inde- 
cision on  ray  part  longer.  I  will  dismiss  Benson,  or  she  shall 
obey  me." 

"  Flora — foolish  child — we  could  not  do  without  her — why, 
she  was  my  mother's  main  dependence." 

•'  I  have  heard  enough  of  this  from  Benson,  pray  don't 
repeat  it.     I  believe  that  I  am  now  Mrs.  Clarendon." 

.  "  But,  Flora,"  replied  Mr.  Clarendon,  startled,  "  we  cannot 
dismiss  I3enson." 

"  There  is  but  one  alternative." 

"  Viu  la  reine! — On  !  Stanly,  on  ! — to  the  battle,  without 
delay  !  You  are  assuming  a  new  character,  and  quite  inspire 
me  to  follow  my  fair  general." 

''  Laugh  at  me,  if  you  will,  I  have  borne  enough — but  you 
must  sustain  me." 

/  "  All  I  can  sny  is,  God  speed  you — it  is  what  I  could  never 
attempt — rule  Benson  !  She  is  an  ogress — that's  a  fact — and 
you  have  been  tried  with  her  domestic  tyranny.  But  remem- 
ber, Flora,  that  she  is  as  faithful  as  an  old  cross  dog,  and 
would  serve  us  till  death.  I  should  not  dare  actually  to  con- 
front her — wait  awhile  " 

''  I  am  not  afraid  of  doing  what  is  right  ;  while  you  were 
satisfied  with  her  course,  I  was  uncomplaining.  I  could  suffer 
alone,  but  my  husband  shall  not  be  made  uncomfortable  bv  mv 
fault." 

"  But  you  are  not  responsible,  my  darling,  for  Benson's 
arbitrary  ways." 

"  I  am  ;  I  have  not  taught  her  my  own  position.  She  looks 
u})0n  me  as  the  child  I  came  to  you." 

"  And  you  are  not  ?  you  would  have  us  all  believe." 

"  Yes — still  too  much  of  one."  The  excited  girl,  for  a 
moment,  buried  her  head  and  tearful  eyes  on  the  shoulder  of 
her  husband.  A  kiss,  that  told  of  reconciliation  and  restored 
good  humor,  met  her  lips  ;  and  when   the   announcement  for 


Isoka's    Child.  431 

dinner  came,  her  brow  was  unruffled,  and  ber  eyes  without  a 
shadow. 

The  dinner  passed  off  gaily.  Flora  was  in  high  spirits,  and 
called  her  wits  into  play,  to  amuse  her  husband.  She  rallied 
him  on  his  long  interview  with  Cora,  and  expressed  her  dis- 
affection for  the  Colonel,  whom  she  called  stiff  and  proud. 

"  What  were  you  talking  of  so  long  with  him  ?"  said  Mr. 
Clarendon. 

"  About  'coats  of  arms,'  and  he  asked  me  what  was  that  of 
my  family." 

"  What  did  you  reply  ?"  questioned  Mr.  Clarendon,  hastily. 

"  I  told  him  that  I  had  never  paid  any  attention  to  heraldry 
— that  I  was  too  good  a  republican  to  waste  my  thoughts 
upon  such  remnants  of  British  pride." 

"  Oh,  Flora,  why  didn't  you  humor  his  predilection  for  such 
things.  You  must  learn  to  harmonize  your  views,  to  at  least 
a  civil  degree  with  others." 

''  Then,  of  course,  I  must  ignore  ray  own  opinions,  and  side 
with  those  of  others.  I  hate  pride,  hypocrisy,  and  toadyism. 
But  here  is  our  dessert." 

"  And  a  glass  of  wine  for  you." 

'*  Your  toast  ?  I  join  you  in  a  purer  beverage." 

*'  Success  to  your  victory  over  Benson." 

"  Hash  !"  whispered  Flora,  taking  the  glass  from  her  lips, 
"  she  is  coming.     I  will  speak  to  her  now,  while  you  are  here." 

Mr.  Clarendon  resorted  to  a  newspaper,  whether  to-  conceal 
a  smile,  or  his  fears  he  did  not  say.  Miss  Dorothy  came  into 
the  dining-room,  with  a  maimer  consistent  with  her  late  rebel- 
lion, without  any  apparent  object,  but  to  show  her  deiiance  of 
ceremony. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Flora,  addressing  her.  "  I 
find  that  there  are  no  flowers  in  the  vases  that  I  filled  this 
morning — why  is  this  ?" 

"  It's  new  times  to  have  litters  romid— didn't  'spose  Mr. 
Louis  liked  'era.     He  never  used  to." 

Miss  Dorothy  now  peered  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  and 
drew  down  the  corners  of  her  month,  while  her  nostrils 
expanded,  and  spoke  plainly  as  ever — defiance. 

"You  have  a  new  mistress,  as  well  as  new  times,"  said 
Flora,  looking  at  the  red  cartain  opposite. 

Mr.  Clarendon  laid  down  his  paper — glanced  at  his  wife, 
and  then  at  Miss   D<n-othy.     The  contrast   in   Flora's  girlish 


4:32  Isoka's    Child. 

beauty,  with  the  masculine  rigidity  of  her  combatant,  fixed  his 
attention.  A  deeper  color  had  arisen  on  Flora's  cheek,  while 
he  perceived  che  agitation  she  so  well  concealed. 

Miss  Dorothy  planted  her  knuckles  in  her  ribs  more  impres- 
sively, and  finally  spoke. 

"I've  lived  here  goin'  on  forty  year,  and  I've  had  older  mis- 
tresses in  my  time." 

"  Your  replies  are  not  to  the  purpose,  and  impertinent,"  said 
Flora,  impressively,  while  she  looked  full  into  the  green  eyes, 
fastened  on  her  young  face,  '*  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
permitted  the  last  disobedience  to  ray  requirements  from  you, 
and  that  I  shall,  for  the  future,  expect  entire  submission  to  my 
orders." 

With  hands  and  eyes  exalted,  ceiling  high,  Miss  Dorothy 
exclaimed, 

"  And  it's  a  person  of  my  respectability  that's  to  be  ordered 
about,  like  an  Irish  of  a  potato  digging  " 

*'  Benson  !"  thundered  Mr.  Clarendon  in  a  voice  that 
silenced  the  rebellious  Dorothy. 

"  Few  words  are  necessary,"  interposed  Flora,  "you  must 
leave  my  service  or  strictly  obey  me  ;  remember — that  to-mor- 
row, and  hereafter,  until  I  change  the  hour,  I  shall  expect  din- 
ner at  five  o'clock.     You  can  now  go." 

Dorothy  turned  white,  and  then  yellow,  while  her  eyes 
flashed  all  the  shades  of  a  beer-bottle  iu  the  sun.  She  gave  an 
appealing  look  at  Mr.  Clarendon,  as  to  higher  authority,  but 
here  she  found  no  favor,  but  rather  a  stern  judge,  and  in  the 
words  that  closed  the  conference,  she  read  her  verdict. 

"  You  can  leave  now,  and  hereafter  obey  the  orders  of  your 
mistress." 

The  knuckles  came  out  of  the  maiden  spinster's  sides,  her 
variegated  eyes  out  of  the  fluted  ceiling  ;  though  vanquished,  she 
retreated  majestically. 

A  low  chuckle  from  Timothy  was  heard  outside  of  the  door, 
who  soon  came  in  with  a  dying  grin  on  his  face,  to  put  away 
the  silver. 

After  the  door  had  closed  upon  the  waiter.  Flora  and  her 
husband  proceeded  to  the  library,  the  latter  much  pleased  with 
his  wife's  decision,  and  the  position  she  had  taken  with  the  ser- 
vants ;  while  Flora  threw  aside  her  dignity,  and  on  the  knee 
of  her  husband,  teased  and  amused  him,  and  endeavored  to 
keep  him  at  home  through  the  evening 


Isora's    Child.  433 

"  ^0,  no,"  persisted  the  admiring  husband;  "not  too  many 
victories  in  one  day.  I  am  positively  afraid  of  you — such  a  blow 
to  tlie  state  as  we  have  had! — Adieu,  don't  sit  up  for  me.'' 

The  next  moment  Flora  was  looking  from  the  window,  with 
Sappho's  paws  on  the  casement,  wondering  if  any  one  in  the 
wide  world  was  as  happy  as  herself.  Benson's  lecture  was 
reported  through  the  house  by  Timothy,  who  had  enjoyed  it,  and 
although  with  the  servants,  the  dictator  exhibited  her  power 
with  her  usual  imperiousness,  yet  in  the  presence  of  her  young 
mistress,  she  wore  an  ambiguous  look,  that  betokened  some- 
thing between  real  and  mock  submission.  Flora  feared  that  the 
usurper  was  conquered  only  to  rise  with  stronger  rebellion,  but^' 
was  contented  with  her  present  apparent  subjection. 

Dinner  was  served  subseqiiently  at  the  hour  ordered,  and 
Flora's  control  of  her  establishment  supreme.  Mr.  Clarendon 
was  half  puzzled  with  his  wife's  new  display  of  power,  and 
winced  a  little  at  the  thought  of  further  exercising  her  sway. 
A  ruling  spirit  in  a  woman  had  ever  excited  his  aversion,  and 
why  ? — he  was  a  good  deal  of  a  despot  himself.  Perhaps  it 
was  well  that  the  little  orphan  Flora,  whom  he  had  once  deemed 
it  condescension  to  marry,  possessed  a  mind  that  forbade  too 
stern  dominion. 

Yet,  with  all  the  spirit  and  decisive  character  of  Flora,  she 
was  yet  in  slavery,  though  silken  were  the  chains  that  bound 
her  to  him  in  whose  happiness  she  lived  and  breathed.  Her 
existence  seemed  woven  in  the  magic  tie,  and  life  or  death 
involved  in  the  faithlessness  or  fidelity  of  one  heart — one  being. 

She  had  her  domestic  vexations,  but  they  passed  like  clouds 
over  a  June  sky,  leaving  no  enduring  shadow.  A  new  glory 
seemed  shed  over  her  life.  As  yet,  she  had  met  with  little  oppo- 
sition from  her  husband,  in  her  resources  for  enjoyment.  Her 
Bible  was  her  daily  study,  and  its  precious  teachings  told  her 
that  wealth  had  not  been  her  portion,  witiiout  some  wise  purpose. 
She  spent  many  hours  in  projecting  schemes  .of  usefulness, 
whereby  she  could  aid  the  needy.  Her  well-tilled  purse  was 
often  opened  to  relieve  the  poor  and  suffering  ;  and  many 
objects  of  her  benevolence  blessed  her,  as  she  sought  unosten- 
tatiously their  homes.  But  discretion  was  not  always  exhi- 
bited in  her  charities,  and  with  the  warm  impulses  of  her 
nature,  she  often  threw  away  generous  sums  upon  the  under- 
serving,  and  it  was  long  before  the  youthful,  unsuspecting 
Flora  could  learn  to  re})ulse  the  outstretched  hand,  and  not  to 

19 


434  Isoea's    Child. 

feel  that  every  beggar  who  approached  her,  told  not  a  tale  of 
truth. 

But  in  this  benevolent  source  of  happiness,  trials  awaited 
her.  While  she  devoted  her  resources,  to  gratify  her  love  for 
doing  good,  the  richness  of  her  dress  for  which  she  was  so 
liberally  supplied,  did  not  equal  her  husband's  expectations. 
He  often  demurred  at  the  simplicity  of  her  attire,  and  when  he 
discovered  that  instead  of  furnishing  jewels,  brocades,  and 
shawls  from  India's  loom,  for  his  beautiful  Flora,  he  had, 
through  her,  been  bestowing  charities  upon  old  Susies,  Katies, 
starving  widows,  and  orphans,  he  was  displeased,  though  he 
continued  none  the  less  liberal  to  the  wife  whom  he  felt 
reluctant  to  deny  As  months  wore  away,  Mr.  Clarendon 
became  more  than  ever  noted  in  public  life,  and  was  more 
frequently  at  political  meetings.*  When  at  home,  he  was  fond 
as  ever  of  his  fascinating  wife,  though  her  simple  style  of 
dress,  and  the  exhibition  of  her  peculiar  and  independent 
tastes,  often  excited  Lis  comments  and  disapproval,  and  he  had 
ceased  to  expect  her  to  be  conformable  to  fashionable  ceremo- 
nies ;  still  he  looked  for  the  same  charms  that  had  at  first 
w^OQ  his  heart,  and  for  the  same  elastic  step,  that  had  bounded 
to  meet  him  when  a  child.  He  was  vexed  if  she  seemed 
listless,  or  less  beautiful,  than  when  he  brought  her  to  his 
home,  a  joyous  bride.  But  the  gay  world  had  never  possessed 
one  attraction  to  Flora.  She  was  formed  by  nature  for  the 
enjoyment  of  luxury,  but  the  great  charm  that  universally 
enslaves  the  follower  of  fashion  and  the  partaker  of  her  revels 
— the  love  of  surpassing  the  competitors  in  the  chase — to 
Flora  had  no  allurement.  Yet  she  was  there  in  the  presence 
of  her  husband,  and  she  pleased  him  by  her  acquiescence,  and 
so  the  world  gazed  upon,  admired,  criticised,  and  ridiculed, 
while  a  part  worshiped  the  singular  being  whose  attractions, 
wealth,  and  position,  placed  her  among  the  leaders  of  the 
ton,  unknown  to  herself.  If  she  appeared  with  her  raven 
locks  unadorned  at  the  greatest  party  of  the  season,  with  a 
dress  so  unpretending  that  her  husband  was  displeased,  sim- 
plicity became  for  a  while  the  rage  in  the  Clarendon  clique, 
while  even  her  bewitching  tones  were  imitated  by  many  who 
betrayed  their  ambition  to  resenible  their  unaffected  queen. 
But  if  to  please  her  husband  she  floated  through  the  next  gay 
circle,  rich  in  attire,  and  sparkling  with  jewels,  the  prevailing 
taste  as  suddenly  changed,  and  those  who  could  not  purchase 


Isora's    Child.  435 

diamonds,  shone  with  borrowed  liirht.  Independence  and 
hantewr  of  manner  became  also  admissible,  among  her  imitators, 
who  unfortunately  could  only  make  themselves  disagreeable, 
while  they  lacked  the  charm  she  possessed,  of  winning  as 
powerfully  with  her  magical  smiles  as  she  repelled  by  her  cold- 
ness. To  be  then  a  favorite  of  the  eccentric,  indifferent,  yet 
transcendently  lovely  wife  of  Mr.  Clarendon,  was  an  object  of 
ambition  with  both  sexes  ;  and  emulation  excited  as  much 
mortification  as  pleasure  ;  for  Flora  invariably  turned  aside 
with  contempt,  from  the  fawning  and  the  sycophantic,  to  seek 
the  humblest  and  most  unassuming. 

Mr.  Clarendon  seemed,  at  times,  as  much  dazzled  as  the 
circle  she  drew  about  her  ;  but  he  felt  his  presence  dangerous 
to  her  popularity  ;  for  if  aware  of  his  approach,  her  eyes 
followed  him,  as  the  flower  seeks  the  sun,  and  every  glance  in 
her  eloquent  face  told  plainer  than  words  could  betray,  that 
she  longed  for  the  quiet  of  home,  with  the  society  of  one 
dearer  than  all  that  the  world  could  offer  her,  in  its  flattery. 

But  Flora  sacrificed  her  tastes  to  her  husband's  love  of  the 
world,  though  she  claimed  her  reward.  Wearied  with  dissi- 
pation, she  still  went  her  daily  rounds  of  benevolence,  until, 
at  last,  her  husband  became  so  much  dissatisfied  with  her 
charitable  pursuits,  that  he  protested  strongly  against  her 
continuing  them,  and  insisted  upon  an  entire  change  in  her 
habits.  He  complained  that  she  w^as  becoming  languid  and 
pale,  which  he  attributed  to  her  ftvquenting  sickly  hauuts. 
In  vain  Flora  wonid  plead  the  last  night's  gaiety  to  which  she 
had  been  unaccustomed.  , 

So  time  rolled  on,  while  she  alternately  delighted  and 
annoyed  her  exacting,  but  still  adoring  husband  She  studied 
to  gratify  his  wishes,  but  her  golden  robin  was  as  well  trained 
for  many  of  the  scenes  in  which  she  was  expected  to  act  her 
part.  Impulsive  and  wayward,  and  in  many  of  her  fancies  as 
untutored  as  a  fawn  of  the  forest,  she  was  often  in  trouble,  aud 
as  requiring  of  indulgence  as  the  child  of  the  young  guardian's 
adoption  ;  and  many  a  pettish  cry  she  had  upon  the  shoulder 
of  her  fond  husband,  who  scolded  her  for  her  rudeness,  when 
he  wished  for  her  most  politic  smiles. 

Tlie  etiquette  of  the  dinner-table  he  often  accnsed  her  of 
neglecting,  and  much  to  his  annoyance,  forgetting,  in  her  artless 
chat  with  her  neighbors,  her  duty  as  a  hostess.  But  a  look 
from  her  husband  would  generally  recall  her  attention,  and  the 


436  Isoka's    Child. 

neglected  guest  was  ready  to  forgive  the  delinquency  when  the 
rising  crimson  of  her  cheek,  excited  by  her  husband's  disap- 
proval, so  consciously  spoke  her  sensitiveness  to  his  dis- 
pleasure. 

Upon  one  occasion  her  favorite  bird  flew  from  its  cage,  and 
after  fluttering  over  the  table,  alighted  on  the  shoulder  of  its 
mistress.  Totlie  company  this  was  but  a  diversion,  and  excited 
Flora's  tenderness  for  her  golden-winged  pet ;  but  at  the 
moment,  a  gentleman  had  asked  her  to  drink  wine  with  him, 
which  courtesy,  instead  of  accepting,  she  disregarded,  in  her 
devotion  to  her  little  warbler.  The  incident  and  its  conse- 
quences, which  exhibited  the  wayward  impulses  of  the  young 
wife,  instead  of  the  elegant,  self-possessed  woman,  who  would 
have  been  undisturbed  by  the  entrance  of  a  troop  of  blackbirds 
on  such  an  occasion,  chagrined  her  husband,  especially  as  the 
person  was  none  else  than  an  English  gentleman  of  distinction, 
by  the  name  of  Dethwaite,  and  accompanied  by  his  sister,  in 
honor  of  whom  the  party  had  been  given.  Naught  but  grace- 
ful raillery,  exhibited  the  hidden  feeling  on  the  part  of  the 
accomplished  host,  but  Flora  had  met  her  husband's  look  ;  jt 
spoke  volumes  to  her  sensitive  spirit,  and  tears  brighter  than 
the  diamonds  on  her  bosom  glittered  in  her  eyes  ;  and  but  for 
the  smile  that  as  quickly  followed,  would  have  fallen,  and  occa- 
sioned him  double  mortification.  Flora  was,  however,  no 
'- child- wife,"  for  her  house  was  orderly,  and  tasteful,  and  her 
dinners  unexceptionable  ;  but  if  all  tbe  nobles  of  England  sat 
at  her  table,  so  untutored  was  her  nature,  so  fervent  and  enthu- 
siastic her  love  for  all  objects  of  her  attachment,  that  feeling 
would  exhibit  itself  on  occasions  when  apparent  indifference 
would  have  been  more  conformable  to  the  woman  of  society. 

But  hours  came  when  each  guest  had  departed,  when 
released  from  the  convivial  circle,  Flora  was  permitted  to 
throw  aside  her  gorgeous  apparel  for  a  simple  robe,  and  in 
delicious  retirement  in  her  own  home,  rest  from  the  weariness  of 
etiquette,  and  feast  on  the  anticipation  of  a  quiet  future.  These 
periods  of  freedom  w^ere  richly  prized.  Her  equipage  was  a 
source  of  much  enjoyment,  contributing  essentially  to  the  grati- 
fication of  her  tastes,  and  enabling  her  to  fulfill  the  object  of 
every  mission,  her  heart  or  inclination  prompted  her  to  seek. 

As  months  wore  away,  Flora's  jealous  requirement  of  her 
husband's  society  was  unabated,  and  the  most  precious  moments 
of  her  existence  were  those  circumscribed  by  his  leisure  hours, 


Isora's    Child.  437 

when,  in  her  own  home  circle,  she  could  yield  him,  as  of  old,  her 
single  devotion,  while  she  seemed  as  yet  his  idol.  She  became 
sometimes  impatient  by  his  long  periods  of  absence,  but  joy  at 
his  return  overcame  grief,  and  her  welcome  was  without  tears 


CHAPTER    XXYIII. 

If  tenderness  touched  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye, 

At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye, 
From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  revealings 
From  innermost  shrines  came  the  light  of  her  feelings. 

Moore. 

^il^LOKA,   how  many  beggars   did    you   visit   yesterday? 

J  you  are  losing  your  health,  and  wasting  money  in  this 
charity  business." 

So  Mr.  Clarendon  addressed  his  wife,  sitting  at  the  break- 
fast table,  while  the  morning  newspaper  chiefly  occupied  him. 
He  had  returned  home  at  a  late  hour  the  night  previous,  and 
awoke  with  a  headache,  which  did  not  serve  to  give  a  flatter- 
ing aspect  to  Flora's  acts  of  benevolence. 

"  I  visit  no  beggars,  dear,"  said  Flora,  "  those  that  do  noi 
beg,  need  charity  more." 

"  But  you  are  looking  ill  with  your  exertions.  I  cannot  per- 
mit you  " 

Before  Mr.  Clarendon  had  ceased,  the  door  of  the  breakfast 
room  opened,  and  a  child,  clad  in  rags,  ill-looking,  and  dirty, 
brushed  past  him,  with  a  little  hungry  dog  at  his  heels.  The 
cur  instantly  snatched  a  bone  from  the  table,  by  mounting  a 
chair,  and  then  darting  for  the  door,  first  trailing  his  booty 
over  the  morning  robe  of  Mr.  Clarendon. 

The  boy  stood  with  his  eyes  and  mouth  extended,  gazing  on 
the  splendor  about  him. 

Mr.  Clarendon  laid  himself  back  in  his  seat,  first  looking  at 
Flora,  then  at  his  gown,  and  lastly  at  the  boy,  with  an  expres- 
sion that  grew  more  indignant  each  moment. 

Flora  was  momentarily  dismayed,  in  the  consequences 
brought  upon  herself,  in  her  character  for  benevolence.     Bui 


438  Isora's    Child. 

the  independence  of  her  nature  soon  showed  itself ;  she  felt 
conscious  of  no  intended  wrong,  therefore,  quietly  told  the 
waiter  to  take  the  boy  to  the  kitchen,  with  a  reproof  for  allow- 
ing him  an  entrance  into  the  breakfast  room.  Timothy  insisted 
however,  that  the  vagrant  rushed  passed  him,  without  his 
knowledge,  but  the  discussion  was  not  of  long  continuance  ; 
Benson  having  obtained  a  sight  of  him  through  the  open  door, 
when,  without  ceremony,  she  collared  the  urchin,  and  dragged 
him  backwards  to  the  kitchen  stairway,  down  which  she  sent 
him  like'  a  ball,  against  tlie  cook,  who  was  about  giving  the 
waiter  a  dish  of  toast,  just  ordered  by  her  master, — which  con- 
sequently, in  the  concussion,  flooded  the  boy,  and  went  stream 
iug  on  the  floor,  to  the  utter  consternation  of  all  parties. 

"  Now  lick  it  up,"  said  Benson  with  a  cuS",  "  and  if  you  show 
your  monkey  face  into  a  gentleman's  parlor  again,  I'll  send  you 
out  of  the  window,  instead  of  the  door." 

"  A  pretty  scrape  !"  said  the  exasperated  cook — "  when  a 
gentleman  orders  a  dish  of  toast,  and  this  kick  up  is  all  that's 
made  of  it.  What's  this  dog  doing  here  any  way,  and  how 
came  he  sent  at  me,  like  a  brick-bat  ?" 

Tbe  boy  sat  meanwhile  on  the  floor  making  a  good  meal  ; 
the  dog  having  escaped  yelping  with  a  kick  from  Timothy  out 
of  a  side  door,  with  more  consciousness  of  being  unwelcome 
than  his  juvenile  master.  After  the  hubbub  was  over,  Mr. 
Clarendon  asked  impatiently  "  Why  the  toast  was  not  sent  up?" 

"  1  will  see,  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  who  soon  came  back, 
endeavoring  to  conceal  a  grin,  while  he  said, 

"  The  boy's  licking  it  off  the  floor,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  be  insolent,"  replied  Mr.  Clarendon  an- 
grily— "get  the  dish  I  ordered." 

"  The  cook  says  that  you  will  be  obliged  sir,  to  wait  for 
some  to  be  made.  Benson  smashed  the  boy  gin  the  cook, — the 
toast  lathered  the  boy,  and  he's  now  in  the  thickest  on't.'' 

"  Pitch  him  into  the  street,  and  if  ever  you  admit  one  of 
these  dirty  rascals  into  my  doors,  I'll  discharge  you." 

"  But,  sir  " 

"  I  will  hear  no  excuses.  Obey  my  orders,  and  tell  Benson 
to  see  to  the  toast.  You  see  what  has  arisen,  Flora,  from  your 
charities."     The  waiter  vanished. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Flora.  "  The  hall  door  must  have  been 
left  open." 

Mr.  Clarendon  saw  that  Flora  was  disturbed  by  his  displea- 


I  s  ()  R  a'  s    C  II I  l  d  .  439 

sure,  and  resolved  that  lie  would  drop  the  preseut  difficulty, 
and  take  the  opportunity  to  deliver  his  sentiments  on  home 
missions,  which,  in  his  view,  were  most  reprehensible. 

Flora  listened  patiently,  but  was  unfortunately  prevented 
replyino:  by  the  reception  of  a  note.  She  perused  it,  and  laid 
it  aside  for  further  attention. 

"  A  card  of  invitation  ?*'  inquired  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  No,"  said  the  ingenuous  wife,  "  I  am  requested  by  a  lady 
to  accompany  her  to street." 

"And  for  what?" 

"  A  poor  girl,  whom  we  have  visited,  is,  she  says,  very  ill, 
and  wishes  to  see  me." 

"Fanaticism,  absurdity  !  Small-pox  or  measles,  which  are 
you  exposed  to?  These  proceedings  shall  be  stopped,"  said 
Mr.  Clarendon,  imperatively. 

''  Excuse  me  one  moment,"  said  Flora,  a  little  agitated. 
She  hastened  to  the  kitchen,  and  inquired  if  the  boy  was  still 
waiting. 

"  Yes  ma'am,"  said  the  cook.  "  I've  put  him  in  the  scullery 
to  stay,  till  you  finish  breakfast,  ma'am," 

"  Have  you  given  him  anything,  Betsy  ?" 

"  Benson  gave  him  more  than  he  wantea,  ma'am.  lie 
licked  the  floor,  and  Benson  licked  him." 

"  Fill  his  basket,  Betsy,  and  send  him  away  immediately." 

The  boy  came  out  of  the  scullery,  and  soon  escaped  with 
Ills  loafed  basket,  not  stopping  to  arrange  his  cambric,  which 
Benson  had  left  in  a  decided  state  of  confusion. 

Flor*«  returned  to  her  husband.  The  latter  felt  that  he  had 
annoye/i  and  troubled  her  ;  calling  her  towards  him,  he  took 
from  b»s  pocket  a  small  jewel-case,  and  handed  it  to  her.  She 
received  it  with  a  smile,  and  went  to  her  dressing-room,  whither 
he  followed  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  look  at  it  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  have." 

"  Will  they  do  ?" 

With  a  smile,  Flora  shook  from  her  fingers  a  little  neck- 
lace, and  placed  it  among  misty  laces  and  embroidery,  then 
turning  to  her  husband,  rallied  him  on  his  ill-humor,  while  she 
said  playfully,  "  Be  good  natured  before  you  go." 

With  one  hand  on  her  shoulder,  he  replied,  earnestly. 
"  You  can  make  me  so,  by  promising  to  go  to  no  more  of 
these  sickly  haunts  ;  name  the  sum  you  wish,  and  it  shall  be 


440  Isoka's    Child. 

appropriated  accordiug  to  your  desires,  but  I  cannot  suffer  you 
to  coutaminate  yourself  longer.  I  fear  the  consequences  of 
such  imprudence." 

"  But  poor  Ellen  may  die,  and  I  never  see  her  !" 

"  How  long  have  you  visited  her  ?"' 

"  For  several  mouths." 

"  So  much  the  worse,  if  she  is  so  ill.  She  may  die,  and 
you  with  her  !     Hear  me,  Flora,  I  forbid  you  going  again." 

"  This  once,"  said  Flora,  pleadingly. 

"  No.  There  is  too  much  risk  involved  to  yourself.  Pve 
been  annoyed  enough.  Don't  irritate  me  by  urging  this. 
Why,  you'll  bring  a  set  of  infantry  after  you,  as  ragged  as 
FalstafiTs." 

"  But  poor  Ellen  is  no  vagrant.     She  is  a  sick  orphan." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  are  exposed." 

"  Not  in  the  least.     She  has  the  consumption." 

"  There  are  asylums  enough  for  her — the  hospital  " 

"  But  you  are  not  so  unkind,"  said  Flora. 

"  But  I  will  be,  if  you  don't  refuse  to  go.     At  once  decline.'* 

"  I  don't  like  to,"  persisted  Flora.  She  saw  that  her 
husband  was  determined  in  his  opposition  to  her  visit,  so  she 
wrote  the  note  required. 

Her  disappointment  was  evident,  but  Mr.  Clarendon's 
aversion  was  so  great  to  her  pursuits,  that  he  felt  no  regret  at 
overruling  her  wishes,  and  left  her,  impatient  and  disturbed. 

Flora  went  to  her  chamber,  with  her  heart  swelling  with 
sympathy  for  the  dying  crirl,  whom  she  knew  it  would  comfort 
to  see  her.  She  cried  with  disappointment.  Then  she  prepared 
some  delicacies,  and  with  a  dish  of  choice  grapes,  sent  them 
to  the  invalid.  They  had  scarcely  been  sent  when  a  loud  ring 
was  heard  from  the  door  bell,  and  a  note  received  from 
the  same  lady,  saying  that  "  poor  Ellen  was  dying,  and 
that  all  the  wish  she  expressed  was  to  see  her  dear,  kind 
friend." 

Flora  went  to  her  dressing-room  for  a  few  moments.  She 
was  perplexed  what  to  do  :  to  disobey  her  husband,  or  to  2^0  to 
see  poor  Ellen.  She  thought  how  much  good  she  might  do  by 
soothing  the  last  moments  of  one  whose  days  of  suffering  she 
had  cheered  and  comforted.  She  felt  that  in  this  act,  she 
followed  the  example  of  Him  who  went  about  doing  good,  and 
she  believed  that  it  was  her  duty  to  go,  though  against  the 
commands  of  her  husband. 


Isora's    Child  441 

So  Flora  met  her  friend  at  the  door  of  her  mansion, 
and  they  proceeded  to  the  abode  of  the  invalid. 

On  her  errands  of  mercy,  Flora  had  learned  to  love  the 
dying  orphan.  She  had  long  soothed  her  sufferings  with  tender 
nursing,  and  drawn  her  from  thoughts  of  the  grave  and  its 
terrors  to  a  world  of  happiness.  She  had  brought  to  her  bed- 
side, her  own  beloved  clergyman,  who  carried  her  in  the  arras 
of  faith  to  the  mercy  seat,  as  one  of  God's  chosen  ones.  She 
had  bade  her  throw  herself,  with  her  sins  and  unworthiness,  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross — to  trust  and  be  saved.  She  had  led 
her,  step  by  step,  in  the  paths  of  righteousness,  until  the  poor 
girl  found  peace  in  believing,  and  could  exclaim,  "Where  all  is 
darkness,  now  I  see  light — I  am  rich  beyond  the  riches  of 
earth  in  the  hope  of  Heaven." 

She  now  arrived,  for  the  last  time,  at  the  door  of  her 
patient,  whose  approaching  dissolution  was  evident,  and  had 
the  blessed  consolation  of  hearing  words  of  peace,  from  lips 
closing  in  death.  For  the  first  time,  since  her  ciiildhood,  she 
witnessed  the  sad  spectacle.  A  hired  nurse,  and  her  accompany- 
ing friend  were  with  her.  Thus  they  met  the  fell  destroyer. 
!No  relative  was  near  to  receive  the  last  sigh  of  the  orphan, 
or  mourn  her  loss.  The  breath  of  the  lowly  sufferer  was 
expended  in  blessings  on  the  kind  being  who  had  been  to  her 
one  of  earth's  angels.  Flora  sunk  Vjy  her  bed-side,  and  prayed 
for  the  immortal  spirit  already  plumed  for  its  upper  flight. 
The  eyes  veiled  with  death's  darkening  mists  cast  upon  her 
their  last  rays,  and  from  the  voice,  fast  failing,  she  heard  the 
words  of  whispered  peace  and  happiness.  The  sad  ofiBces 
remaining  were  performed  under  the  direction  of  Flora.  She 
then  parted  the  hair  on  the  brow  of  the  dead  sleeper,  crossed 
the  pallid  hands  on  the  bosom  now  cold,  and  left  her.  Why 
did  Flora  once  more  return  ?  once  more  lift  the  veil  from  the 
still  placid  features  ? — a  shadow  came  over  her  memory — she 
had  seen  death  before,  it  was  a  dim  recollection,  but  it  held 
her  spell-bound.  In  the  hands  of  the  dead,  she  placed  a  white 
rose,  plucked  from  a  small  bush,  now  bereft  of  its  wonted  care, 
and  again  left  for  her  home.  To  one  of  the  attendants,  she 
lianded  her  purse,  wliile  she  gave  directions  for  the  burial  of 
the  deceased.  At  the  door  of  the  darkened  chamber  she  met 
Dr.  Vale,  to  whom  she  gave  her  hand,  and  said,  feelingly, 
"  You  are  too  late." 

"  Yes,   poor   Ellen   has   gone,   but   she   is   the   earlier  in 
19* 


442  Isoka's    Child. 

Heaven.  I  was  here  before  you  came  ;  she  wished  much 
to  see  you.     I  am  glad  her  desire  was  granted." 

"Oh,  Doctor,  she  has  interested  me  much."  Flora  hid  her 
tearful  eyes,  and  passed  out. 

During  her  absence,  her  husband  had  returned  home,  and 
inquired  for  her,  and  was  answered  by  a  note  she  had 
hastily  pencilled,  which  he  found  in  his  library,  that  ran 
thus : — 

"  Dearest  Husband, 

"Forgive  me,  I  am  going  to  see  poor  Ellen,  she  is  dying,  and 
has  sent  for  me.     Don't  be  angry." 

But  Mr.  Clarendon  was  displeased  and  disappointed — he  had 
come  for  his  wife  to  join  an  excursion  with  a  party  of  friends, 
among  whom  was  Madame  Delano.  He  was  thoroughly  vexed, 
and  having  anticipated  the  trip  with  pleasure,  was  the  more 
disturbed  at  Flora's  rebellion  to  his  expressed  wishes. 

He  wrote  a  few  words  in  reply,  and  left  the  house. 

'^  I  came  home  for  you,  Flora,  to  accompany  me  on  a  pleasure  trip,  but 
as  you  are  absent,  I  must  go  without  you." 

Flora  returned  sad  and  tearful,  her  nerves  had  borne  a 
shock  that  much  afifected  her,  and  when  she  received  her  hus- 
band's cold  note,  she  wept  with  real  sorrow. 

Flora  now  remembered  seeing  Madame  Delano,  as  sh( 
stepped  into  her  carriage,  and  recollected  how  painfully  hei 
gaiety  had  affected  her,  as  with  coquettish  levity  she  greeted 
her  companions. 

The  scene  from  which  she  had  parted  Hijide  the  contrast  deep. 
Since  reading  her  husband's  note  she  wih  sure  that  tlie  gay 
belle  had  formed  one  of  the  pleasuce-party,  and  a  jealous  pang 
shot  through  her  heart  at  the  thouglTt  ;"  she  might  have  formed 
its  chief  attraction  to  her  husband. 

She  retired  to  her  chamber  in  heavy  sorrow,  only  consoled 
by  the  conviction  that  she  had  done  what  she  believed  right. 
In  the  meanwhile,  Mr.  Clarendon  had  sought  the  party,  and 
with  mingled  emotions  entered  conspicuously  into  the  festivities 
of  the  occasion,  while  his  wife  was  lying  pale  and  sorrowful 
upon  her  bed,  listening  in  imagination  to  the  knell  of  the 
departed,  and  mourning  her  husband's  disapprobation  of  her 


Isoka's    Child.  4.43 

errand.     He  was  with  the  pleasure-party,  inspired  by  music 
and  the  smiles  of  beauty. 

With  the  fascinating  Madame  Delano  he  was  soon  made  cap- 
tive, forgetting,  meanwhile,  the  sensitive  being  whom  his  con- 
science told  him  he  must  have  grieved.  Evening  came  on.  The 
absent  husband  had  not  returned.  Flora  finally  slept,  and 
awoke  refreshed  and  more  calm.  As  night  approached,  she 
grew  anxious  and  troubled  ;  her  mind  roved  through  the  past, 
she  reviewed  her  life,  her  sad  childhood,  with  its  mysterious  veil, 
her  passionate  dream  of  succeeding  years  ;  the  interval  of  trial 
that  separated  her  from  her  guardian,  and  the  workings  of  a 
mind  that  finally  made  its  peace  with  God.  She  drew  a  pic- 
ture of  her  husband,  and  asked  her  heart  why  he  might  not 
become  dear  to  another,  where  he  yielded  his  devotion.  But 
was  he  not  governed  by  principle  as  well  as  love  ?  the  query 
was  followed  by  a  sweet  feeling  of  confidence.  Yes,  he  was 
her  own  true-hearied  husband.  He  came  not,  but  in  the  depths 
of  her  soul  she  could  trust  him,  and  when  her  prayers  ascended 
to  Heaven  for  her  idol,  it  was  with  a  child's  faith — faith  in  his 
integrity,  and  with  a  holy  confidence  in  Him  who  could  pre- 
serve him  pure  and  blameless.  She  fell  asleep  with  the  peaceful 
belief  that  forgiveness  awaited  her  on  her  husband's  return. 
She  knew  not  of  the  alluring  cup  from  which  he  drank  the 
dregs  of  pleasure's  bowl,  or  of  the  sorceress  of  the  hour,  who 
had  detained  him. 

The  husband  found  his  wife  unrufified,  and  calmly  resting.  In 
the  sleep  of  innocence  she  breathed,  as  an  infant  slumbers. 

He  saw  the  traces  of  tears  upon  her  eyelids,  and  thought 
that  her  hair  lay  damp  and  heavy  off  her  temples,  as  if  she  had 
bathed  them  from  a  headache,  but  so  motionless — so  quiet  was 
her  repose,  he  felt  that  no  guilt,  no  jealous  fears  were  hid 
beneath  her  peaceful  bosom.  By  her  side  a  waning  lamp  stood 
burning,  and  the  sacred  page  from  which  she  had  read.  He 
contrasted  her  with  the  vain,  seductive  woman  who  had 
lured  him  from  her  ;  and  though  he  felt  in  that  moment  unwor- 
thy of  her  presence,  he  laid  his  hand  lightly  upon  her  forehead, 
and  gloried  in  the  purity  of  her  heart,  the  holiness  of  her  truth- 
ful love.  Asleep,  and  thus  beautiful,  he  forgave  her  for  disre- 
garding his  wishes.  But  morning  came,  and  with  it  the 
recollections  that  had  excited  his  displeasure.  He  would  not 
own  to  Flora  his  regret  for  the  pain  he  had  caused  her,  "  she 
was  alone  to  l)lame,"  he  said,  but  in  promises  of  future  aban- 
donment of  charitable  visits,  would  he  be  satisfied. 


444:  Isoka's    Child. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 


"  Thou  knowest  how  fearless  is  my  trust  in  thee.** 

Miss  L.  E.  Lakdok. 

THERE  was  ever  an  eye  upon  the  youthful  Flora,  that 
carried  beneath  its  bland  light,  the  fire  of  jealousy.  For  two 
years,  Mr.  Clarendon  had  been  in  society,  a  devoted  admirer 
of  Madame  Delano,  who  was  not  only  envious  of  his  wife's 
beauty  and  piquant  manners,  but  secretly  galled  by  the  influ- 
ence which  made  her  empress  of  her  clique.  Flora  freely  and 
openly  exhibited  her  preferences,  and  without  disguise  made 
her  choice  of  friends  and  acquaintances.  She  had  early  created 
an  enemy  of  the  noted  belle,  without  knowledge  of  her  hus- 
band's partiality  for  her  society,  by  deliberately  slighting,  and 
excluding  her  from  her  circle,  without  deigning  an  apology  to 
the  many  who  marvelled  at  the  absence  of  one  at  her  soirees, 
who  had  been  so  generally  admired,  and  so  much  a  favorite 
with  her  husband.  It  was  sufficient  for  Flora,  that  she  dis- 
liked her.  For  this  neglect,  Madame  Delano  resolved  to  be 
revenged,  and  on  every  opportunity,  when  she  met  her  husband, 
with  artful  sweetness,  feigned  the  most  humble  sorrow  for  her 
want  of  favor  with  his  wife,  while,  with  unmatched  art,  she 
manoeuvered  her  own  plans,  the  chief  of  which,  was  to  secure 
him  as  a  visitor  at  her  own  levees,  in  defiance  of  the  scorn 
exhibited  by  Mrs.  Clarendon  for  her  demeanor. 

The  day  following  a  soiree  given  by  the  former,  at  which 
Mr.  Clarendon  had  been  present,  he  consented,  at  Flora's  soli- 
citation, to  make  a  round  of  visits  with  her.  She  arrayed  her- 
self for  the  occasion  with  unusual  satisfaction.  Her  dress, 
however,  in  some  trifling  matter  did  not  conform  to  her  hus- 
band's taste,  which  occasioned  a  discussion  on  the  subject, 
ending  in  an  unfortunate  allusion  to  the  tasteful  dress  always 
worn  by  Madame  Delano.     "  There  is,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 


Isora's    Child.  445 

"  in  her  appearance,  harmony  of  coloring,  and  such  perfect 
adaptation  in  hues  and  fabrics,  to  her  style  of  features,  and 
complexion,  as  essentially  to  enhance  her  attractions."  Flora 
was  somewhat  piqued,  and  rephed,  "that  she  was  the  last  per- 
son whom  she  would  imitate  ;  that  she  felt  unmitigated  con- 
tempt for  the  woman  and  her  dress." 

"  That  is  a  strong  avowal,  Flora,"  said  her  husband,  "Why 
do  you  dislike  her  ?" 

"  Because  she  is  a  married  flirt,  and  has  apparently  no  other 
aim  in  life,  than  to  feed  her  vanity  on  the  admiration  she 
receives." 

"  I  have  not  observed  this  ;  perhaps  my  comparison  dis- 
pleases you.  I  confess  tliat  I  admire  the  lady,  and  wish  you 
would  be  more  civil  to  her.  By  the  way,  I  met  her  yestf/day 
on  Broadway, — she  was  shopping,  and  selected  a  pair  of 
gloves  for  you,  at  my  request." 

"  For  me  ?"  said  Flora;  "  this  was  unnecessary." 

There  was  little  in  the  words,  but  much  in  the  manner  of 
Flora.  Mr.  Clarendon  was  again  reminded  of  the  contrast  she 
presented  to  the  woman,  whose  preference  flattered  his  vanity, 
and  whom  he  would  gratify  by  some  civility,  at  his  house.  He 
was  awed  by  the  dignity  and  sweetness  with  which  Flora 
refused  to  conform  to  his  wishes,  still  chagrined  that  he  could 
not  carry  his  point. 

The  gloves  which  he  took  from  his  pocket,  were  laid  quietly 
aside  by  Flora,  as  he  handed  them  to  her,  and  others  drawn 
on. 

"You  do  not  like  the  purchase?"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  in- 
quiringly.    "  They  suit  your  dress,  and  are  well  chosen." 

"  But  not  by  you,  else  I  would  wear  them — come — the  morn- 
ing is  wearing  away,  while  we  are  discussing  matters  of  no 
importance." 

"  One  would  fancy  you  jealous.  Flora  ?" 

The  full,  clear  eyes  of  the  wife,  met  those  of  her  husband 
with  a  look  of  mingled  pride  and  love — while  she  said, 
"  Jealous  ! — no,  I  can  never  be  jealous  of  Madame  Delano  ; 
but  we  may  walk  different  paths,  may  we  not,  without  ill  feel- 
ing ?"  Mr.  Clarendon  saw  that  he  had  mistaken  Flora.  She 
was  too  truthful,  too  pure,  and  confiding  for  such  thoughts,  much 
less  towards  one  she  despised.  As  yet  he  had  made  no  pro* 
gress  in  his  efforts  to  reconcile  her  to  his  old  charmer,  and  was 
puzzled  how  to  do  so.     He  said  no  more  upon  the  subject,  but 


446  Isora's    Child. 

accompanied  Flora  on  her  visits,  when  she  winningly  restored 
his  good  humor,  and  dissipated  the  chagrin  he  had  felt,  at  her 
refusal  of  the  gloves. 

In  returning  home,  Mr.  Clarendon  left  her  upon  some  plea, 
and  as  she  supposed,  to  seek  his  office.  Sometime  afterward 
she  espied  him  from  her  carriage,  talkino;  with  Madame  Delano, 
at  the  door  of  a  shop,  which  she  was  about  entering.  Flora's 
lip  slightly  curled,  as  she  witnessed  the  vivacity,  and  expres- 
sive action  of  the  lady,  while  with  one  hand  upon  her  husband's 
arm,  she  attracted  his  attention  to  her  carriage.  Flora  also 
met  her  husband's  eye  ;  her  smile  betrayed  surprise,  but  no 
emotion  of  displeasure.  She  was  serious  on  her  ride  home,  for 
she  wondered  at  his  civility  to  one  whom  she  regarded  with  so 
little  favor  ;  and  was  somewhat  grieved  that  he  had  left  her  so 
abruptly. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  absent  from  home  at  dinner,  but  she 
believed  that  his  business  engagements  were  enirrossing,  and 
tried  to  amuse  herself  with  music  and  reading.  With  Sappho, 
in  her  favorite  resort,  the  library^  she  awaited  his  coming,  with 
increased  impatience,  as  hours  flew  by,  ungladdened  by  her 
husband's  presence.  Suddenly  her  eye  brightens,  her  lips  are 
apart — she  listens  for  the  loved  footsteps — with  a  bound  she 
flies  to  meet  him,  he  folds  her  in  his  arms,  and  asks  her  the 
cause  of  her  agitation. 

"  Oh,  nothing — nothing."  she  replied,  "joy  makes  me  foolish, 
and  you  had  been  gone  so  long." 

Her  salutation  was  affectionately  received.  Mr.  Clarendon 
more  than  ever  prized  his  confiding  wife.  His  eye  is  somewhat 
averted,  while  she  tells  him  that  she  saw  him  while  returning 
home,  and  with  whom,  and  thought  he  must  have  been  immea- 
surably bored.  "But  what  has  detained  you?"  Flora  ques- 
tioned, drawing  her  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"  Never  mind  now.  Flora,  I  am  going  to  write,  don't  disturb 
me."  Mr.  Clarendon  put  his  wife  gently  aside,  while  he  took 
up  a  pen.  Flora  obeyed  with  the  full  assurance  of  her  hus- 
band's fidelity,  while  she  scorned  the  thought  of  his  susceptibi- 
lity to  the  charms  of  Madame  Delano,  or  the  possibiUty  that  he 
could  become  a  dupe  to  her  arts. 

The  following  evening,  Mr.  Clarendon  informed  Flora  that 
his  English  friends  had  returned  from  Niagara,  and  that  they 
must  entertain  them  the  ensuing  week.  Flora  hesitated,  and 
then  gave  a  cheerful  assent.     She  knew,  from  the  manner  of 


Isoka's    CniLD.  447 

her  husband,  that  he  could  not  be  easily  dissuaded  from  hi3 
purpose. 

"  How  do  YOU  like  Miss  Dethwaite  ?"  said  he. 

"  Very  much.     She  is  open  and  ingenuous." 

"She  reminds  me  of  you,  in  the  expression  of  her  mouth." 

"  I  like  her,  and  Mr.  Dethwaite  too.  They  are  wholly 
unartificial.     How  long  do  they  remain  ?" 

"  Xot  long-.     The  object  of  their  visit  is  to  seek  the  child  of 
a  deceased  brother,  whom  they  have  lost  sight  of  a  number  of 
years.     I  shall  have  much  business  with  him  ;  unless  he  finds 
the  heiress,  he  succeeds  to  the  estate." 

"  I  did  not  think  that  I  could  have  met  your  old  friend  so 
indifferently," 

"  You  did  not  think,  that  if  I  had  had  the  inclination  I 
could  have  married  so  distinguished  a  personage.  These  aris- 
tocratic English  belles  are  not  so  easily  made  republicans  of." 

"  You  certainly  made  a  more  humble  marriage."  Flora 
sighed  and  thought  of  the  mystery  of  her  birth,  and  of  the 
stain  that  rested  upon  it  ;  and  how  noble  had  been  the  sacrifice 
of  pride  on  her  husband's  part  in  wedding  her.  How  could 
she  ever  doubt  his  love  ?  Mr.  Clarendon  saw  the  current  of 
her  thoughts,  and  changed  the  subject." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  he,  "  to  show  these  people  some  civility. 
We  must  give  them  a  handsome  reception.  Whom  shall  we 
invite.  Flora  ?" 

"  I  will  arrange  the  matter." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  be  very  exclusive."  A  smile 
accompanied  the  remark. 

"  I  certainly  shall  make  exceptions  to  the  general  company 
we  meet." 

"  You  will  give  offence,  I  fear." 

"  That  with  me  is  not  a  matter  of  the  first  consideration." 

"You  know  that  we  must  invite  some  for  policy,  some  for 
their  musical  powers,  and  a  few  for  friendshio." 

"  No,  my  dear  sir,  none  for  friendship — no  friend  can  I  com- 
pliment in  such  an  assemblage.  Money  can  furnish  us  music  ; 
if  not,  one  public  singer  I  shall  exclude."  The  remark  closed 
with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Clarendon  affected  not  to  observe  to  whom  it  had 
reference. 

''Well,  my  love,"  he  replied,  "make  out  your  list  in  your 
own  way — subject  to  amendment,"  he  added,  significantly. 


44:8  Isoka's    Child 


Mrs.  Clarendon  is  "  at  home,"  to-niglit.  Brilliant  is  the 
scene  within,  though  as  yet  hushed  stillness  pervades  the 
spacious  apartments.  No  satin  sUpper  has  trod  the  gay- 
carpet  of  flowers,  or  the  face  of  beauty  borrowed  new  radiance 
from  the  ihurained  chandeliers  that  gild  each  flowery  saloon. 
Pendant  lustres  flash  and  sparkle  like  thousand  rainbows, 
while  the  soft  hues  of  drapery  multipHed  in  mirrored  light, 
shadowing  forms  of  sculptured  marble,  paintings,  old  and  rare, 
form  a  scene  of  dreamlike  beauty.  Noiseless  feet  glide  about 
for  the  re-arrangement  of  drooping  flowers,  or  the  looping  of 
sweeping  folds  of  damask,  while  back  and  forth  the  host  paces 
from  mirror  to  mirror,  thoughtless,  seemingly,  of  the  present 
hour. 

Flora  Clarendon  is  yet  at  her  toilette.  A  casket  of  jewels 
is  before  her.  She  holds  in  her  fingers,  clusters  of  brilliant 
gems,  and  the  ornaments  she  suspends  upon  her  neck,  are 
each  in  turn  laid  aside.  Neither  rubies,  emeralds,  nor  the 
quivering  light  of  the  opal  or  diamond,  suit  the  lady's  deli- 
cate taste.  In  vain  her  maid  endeavors  to  dazzle  her  eye  with 
magnificence.  She  chooses  a  robe  of  sable  velvet,  with  a  train 
of  ample  length,  and  braids  her  hair  with  simplicity.  Flora 
Clarendon  has  taken  a  last  glance  at  her  mirror,  and  drawing 
on  her  gloves,  she  passed  down  the  staircase,  into  the  drawing- 
room.  She  knew  scarcely  why,  but  on  this  occasion  she  was 
ambitious,  and  verily  her  home  seemed  one  of  flowery  luxury. 
Mr.  Clarendon  was  awaiting  her  coming,  and  approached  his 
wife. 

"  You  look  well,"  he  said,  eyeing  her  narrowly. 

Together  they  promenaded  the  spacious  rooms,  while  at 
each  glance,  Mr.  Clarendon  more  than  ever  admired  the 
classic  elegance  of  Flora's  appearance.  Yet  there  was  strange 
embarrassment  in  his  manner  ;  something  unusual  seemed  upon 
his  mind. 

Soon,    carriages   were   heard   before   the   door,    light   and 


Isora's    Child.  449 

hurried  steps  thronged  the  hall,  while  the  murmining  of  voices 
proclaimed  the  assembling  of  the  guests.  Through  the  con- 
gregated rooms  was  heard  the  soft  flutter  of  feathers,  the 
rustling  of  satins,  while  the  lustre  of  diamond  light  flashed 
like  a  canopy  of  stars.  The  dazzling  throng,  composed  of  the 
courtly  and  distinguished,  paid  their  respects  to  their  beautiful 
hostess,  and  moved  onwards,  like  the  soft  murmurings  of 
gorgeous  leaves. 

The  belles  of  the  great  metropolis  were  brilliantly  gay. 
Each  seemed  to  have  vied  to  surpass  the  other  in  their  attire  ; 
and  the  high  spirits  and  sparkling  vivacity  of  each  social 
coterie,  showed  the  entire  success  of  the  fair  hostess,  in  the 
choice  of  her  well-assorted  guests.  Flora  moved  among  the 
crowd  queen-like — to  all  courteous,  and  to  many  affable.  To- 
night she  had  waived  her  preferences,  and  made  all  happy  by 
her  smiles.  She  had  resolved  to  please,  at  least,  her  husband, 
who  had  censured  her  so  often  for  her  rudeness;  but  he  seemed, 
for  the  first  time,  not  to  observe  her,  and  grew  each  moment 
more  abstracted. 

The  company  had  all  assembled.  The  English  strangers, 
and  the  distinguished  circle  their  position  drew  around  them, 
formed  a  brilliant  set,  of  which  Flora  was  the  magnet.  Her 
simple  loveliness  seemed  to  charm  Mr.  Dethwaite,  and  his 
sister's  gaze  was  riveted  upon  her  like  one  spell-bound.  The 
former  was  a  distinguished  barrister  in  his  own  country,  and  of 
noble  descent.  He  possessed  vast  wealth,  and  an  estate  in 
England  that  rivalled  that  of  the  proudest  earl.  His  sister 
was  a  high-bred  and  elegant  woman,  of  reserved  manners,  and 
aristocratic  bearing. 

After  the  bestowal  of  some  civility  upon  the  strangers,  Mr. 
Clarendon  disappeared  in  the  crowd,  and  to  Flora  he  seemed 
lost  for  the  evening,  so  long  he  remained  absent  from  her  sight. 
She  heard  the  sound  of  music  from  a  sweet  voice,  and  doubted 
little  that  he  was  well  entertained,  though  she  regretted  that 
he  had  not  found  enjoyment  nearer  herself.  But  Flora  had 
become  accustomed  to  his  roving  habits,  and  reconciled  herself 
to  them  with  her  characteristic  nobleness.  She  had  listened 
with  intense  interest  to  Mr.  Dethwaite's  relation  of  the  cir- 
cumstances which  brought  him  to  America  ;  and  had  already 
formed  an  attachment  to  his  sister. 

The  latter  talked  much  of  Mr.  Clarendon  when  in'England, 
and  told  Flora  of  the  strong  friendship  which  they  had  once 


450 


formed.  The  little  cross  of  coral  (her  gift  to  Mr.  Clareudon), 
was  mentioued,  when  Flora  produced  her  own,  corresponding 
precisely  to  it  in  its  exquisite  carving.  The  circumstance 
much  surprised  Miss  Dethwaite,  who  supposed  her  own  with- 
out a  copy. 

Colonel  Livingston  and  Cora  had  arrived  early  in  the  even- 
ing. The  former  was  much  delighted  with  the  new  accession 
to  the  company,  and  paid  great  deference  to  the  distinguished 
Mr.  Dethwaite  and  his  sister. 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  absent  when  Cora  and  her  father  pre- 
sented themselves  to  their  hostess,  but  soon  made  a  brief  salu- 
tation to  them,  and  again  vanished.  The  latter  seemed  also 
everywhere  among  her  visitors,  where  she  often  heard  her 
husband's  name  rjentioned,  and  generally  with  a  significant 
smile.  The  secret  of  his  disappearance  was  at  last  explained. 
She  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  one  of  the  drawing-rooms  : 
around  her  stood  the  English  party  and  a  circle  of  the  Living- 
stons from  New  York  and  the  Hudson,  with  many  other 
guests  of  distinction.  She  had  become  somewhat  disturbed 
by  the  inattention  of  her  husband  to  his  friends  ;  when,  he  ap- 
peared from  the  library,  bringing  towards  her  Madauie  Delano. 
She  was  not  among  her  invited  guests  ;  at  least,  known  to  her- 
self. She  came  forward,  graceful,  beautiful,  and  full  of  fasci- 
nating smiles.  Ko  agitation  or  shame  seemed  to  cause  her 
emotion,  as  she  paid  her  respects  to  the  hostess,  from  whom 
she  had  never  received  aught  but  scorn  and  indifference.  Her 
fair,  round  arms  were  adorned  with  jewels,  and  a  wreath  of 
delicate  flowers  lay  among  the  tresses  of  her  rich  bro\\u  hair, 
giving  a  fairy  effect  to  her  appearance.  Her  eyes  were  full, 
of  seductive  tire,  and  her  red  lip  spoke  triumph  and  disdain  of 
favor.  She  knew  that  with  Mr.  Clarendon  she  had  managed 
successfully  ;  and  had  appeared  at  the  first  magnificent  fete  of 
her  enemy  and  imperious  rival,  though  uninvited  by  her  hostess. 
She  felt  security  from  rudeness,  while  on  the  arm  she  leaned, 
and  in  conscious  beauty  braved  her  secret  displeasure. 

Madame  Delano  had  misjudged  Flora  Clarendon.  She  could 
trust  like  a  child,  but  her  faith  once  shaken,  no  situation,  no 
conventionalities  of  society,  could  compel  her  to  spare  the 
injurer  mortification. 

The  sarcastic  smile,  the  laugh  that  hid  a  sneer,  was  now 
understood,  and  she  had  been  the  dupe  ! 

Flora  saw  the  approach  of  her  unexpected  visitor,  but  a  pil- 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  451 

lar  of  marble  seemed  as  expressionless  as  licr  face,  upon  which 
her  husband  cast  a  bland,  beseeching  look. 

Slowly  her  eyes  turned  upon  Madame  Delano,  From  the 
crown  of  her  head  to  her  feet,  she  scanned  her,  without  a  word 
in  return  to  her  salutation.  Scorn  sat  on  every  lineament, 
while  with  haughty  dignity  she  said  to  her  husband  : 

"  This  is  not  only  a  mistake  but  an  intrusion,  Mr.  Clarendon." 
The  eyes  of  many  spectators  were  on  the  presuming  visitor,  and 
the  adventurous  husband.  Madame  Delano  turned  pale  with 
rage.  The  chivalry  of  her  host  could  not  allow  him  to  see  her 
annihilated  by  even  the  contempt  she  merited.  "  It  is  colder 
here,"  he  said,  forcing  a  smile.  "  than  in  the  music  room. 
Shall  we  return  ?"     The  lady  still  held  his  arm. 

Flora  anticipated  the  movement  ;  her  color  receded,  till 
even  her  lips  were  pallid.  The  fire  of  the  Italian  burned  in 
her  veins.  Rage  flashed  in  the  eyes  of  the  repulsed  visitor,  she 
cast  an  appealing  glance  upon  her  embarrassed  host.  Tears 
swam  in  her  eyes,  while  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  agitation. 
The  eyes  of  Flora  he  knew  were  also  upon  him,  as  well  as  those 
of  her  guests.  The  wife  w^itnessed  the  struggle.  She  felt  that 
now  was  the  die  of  her  happiness  cast  ;  she  neither  looked  at, 
nor  seemed  conscious  of  the  presence  of  his  companion.  The 
radiance  of  her  eyes  dimmed  that  of  the  jewels  around  her, 
while  her  face  was  colorless  as  the  pearls  on  her  brow. 

With  a  look,  deep  and  searching,  one  that  thrilled  with  a 
cold  shudder  his  veins,  she  whispered  to  her  husband,  while  she 
laid  her  hand  impressively  upon  his  arm,  "  Decide  now — this 
woman,  or  your  wife." 

The  lip  of  the  husband  was  rigid  with  emotion  ;  he  mur- 
mured, inaudibly  to  all  others  but  to  her  who  listened,  "  I  still 
ask  your  trust."  With  Madame  Delano  he  instantly  disap- 
peared from  the  saloon,  and  at  the  door,  consigned  her  to  a 
gentleman,  who  disappeared  with  his  fair  charge,  all  wonder- 
ing, but  a  few  who  had  witnessed  the  brief  entree  and  exit  of 
Madame,  why  she  had  so  early  left  a  scene  of  so  much  gaiety. 

in  that  moment,  Louis  Clarendon  felt  the  power  of  love  and 
virtue — the  magic  of  an  appeal  that  through  a  long  hfe,  never 
passed  from  his  memory.  He  had  been  again  ensnared,  but 
the  wings  of  a  dove  had  fluttered  near  his  heart,  and  broken 
the  charm.  He  knew  that  he  had  deeply  erred  ;  that  he  had 
braved  his  wife's  displeasure  to  gratify  the  ambition  and  the 
vanity  of  an  unprincipled  woman,  by  bringing  her  within  the 
pale  of  her  chosen  circle,  trusting  to  the  excitement  of  the 


462  I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child. 

hour,  and  the  timidity  of  woman's  nature,  to  conceal  the  pre- 
sumption and  insolence  on  her  part,  and  the  wrong  on  his. 

Fear  vanished  from  Flora's  nature  when  actuated  by  a  sense 
of  injury.  Truth  was  her  watchword,  and  virtue  her  standard. 
Mr.  Clarendon  was  again  the  courtly  host.  To  his  wife  he 
manifested  an  entire  return  of  devotion  ;  new  inspiration 
seemed  given  the  true,  pure-hearted  Flora.  Few  knew  the 
cause  of  her  sudden  elation  of  spirits,  and  but  one  heard  her 
whispered  appeal.  Cora  had  witnessed  her  triumph,  and  her 
fears  vanished  for  the  young  wife's  happiness. 

The  musical  powers  of  Madame  Delano  added  vastly  to  the 
attractions  of  the  gay  belle,  whose  envy  and  jealousy  had  been 
excited  by  the  dawn  of  a  new  star  in  the  musical  world,  and 
one  so  brilliantly  gifted  as  Mrs.  Louis  Clarendon. 

In  compass  of  voice,  Madame  Delano  was  the  equal  of  Flora, 
and  until  the  latter  subdued  the  senses  of  her  circle  of  admirers 
with  her  voice  of  thrilling  sweetness,  that  swelled  like  the 
imagined  tones  of  a  seraph  on  the  ears  of  her  listeners,  the  fair 
enslaver  had  been  unrivalled. 

Her  ambition  had  at  once  been  excited  ;  the  most  able  mas- 
ters aided  in  the  cultivation  of  her  powers,  and  after  a  period 
of  silence,  Madame  burst  upon  her  astonished  clique  with  a 
brilliancy  of  execution  which  she  had  not  been  supposed  capa- 
ble of  attaining. 

If  she  could  not  sing  as  well,  she  could  now  play  better 
than  Flora  ;  she  therefore,  omitted  no  opportunity  to  delight 
her  old  admirer  with  her  improved  talent. 

Flora  had  seen  her  aim  with  contempt  ;  she  made  no  effort 
to  out-rival  her,  but  with  seeming  apathy  had  watched  the 
effect  of  the  lady's  talents  upon  her  husband.  She  knew  that 
his  ear  was  highly  cultivated,  and  that  he  nicely  discriminated 
between  a  natural  gift,  and  that  degree  of  excellence,  which 
practice  can  only  ensure  the  performer. 

Flora  was  naturally,  a  child  of  song,  and  conscious  of  rare 
endowments,  and  she  determined  that  Mr.  Clarendon  should 
not  long  be  disappointed  in  her  executioa  In  the  pre- 
sence of  Madame  Delano,  she  never  sought  to  excel,  or  equal 
her.  Flora  was  too  proud  to  show  this  emulation,  though 
often,  in  some  retired  corner,  she  would  gratify  a  choice  few 
by  a  song  of  unpretending  sweetness. 

Mr.  Dethwaite  was  now  in  conversation  with  Mr.  Claren- 
don. The  evening  had  glided  on  time's  swiftest  pinions  to  the 
hour  of  one.     Suddenly  the  former  exclaimed  : 


453 


'*I  am  much  overpowered  by  the  manners  and  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Clarendon.  She  reminds  me  of  one  that  I  once  knew. 
Her  eye  has  the  same  power." 

"  Ah  !" 

"Your  wife  is  an  Englishwoman,  I  believe" 

"  She  was  an  orphan  when  I  married  her." 

At  this  moment  music  was  heard  in  the  adjoming  room 
The  gentlemen  ceased  their  conversation.  The  voice  of  Flora 
rose  high  and  clear,  every  sound  was  hushed,  while  in  silence 
the  crowd  listened  to  the  melting  strains.  Madame  Delano 
was  not  present,  and  to-night  Flora  had  determined  fully  to 
gratify  her  husband. 

The  words  of  her  song  were  pure  and  elevated,  such  as 
called  forth  the  pathos  of  her  tones.  Low  and  clear  as  the 
silver  notes  of  a  robin,  she  trilled  and  warbled,  and  then  with 
compass  such  as  few  possessed,  swelled  her  soprano  voice  to 
its  full  power.  Mr.  Dethwaite  was  bewildered  with  the 
strange  enchantment.  He  was  carried  into  the  past.  Flora 
ceased,  w^hen  he  said  : 

"  I  have  never  heard  but  one  voice  like  hers.  She  was  one 
of  Italy's  sweetest  singers." 

Mr.  Clarendon  was  gratified,  and  with  his  companion  pro- 
ceeded to  the  music-room. 

The  song  of  Flora  was  followed  by  a  piece  of  music  requir- 
ing brilliant  execution.  He  was  sorry  that  she  had  attempted 
it,  fearing  that  she  could  not  excel.  But  Flora  had  practised 
for  a  favorable  occasion,  and  with  a  master  hand  touched  the 
keys  of  her  instrument  She  was  excited  and  animated.  She 
had  not  yet  felt  the  presence  of  her  husband.  A  moment 
more,  and  he  appeared  with  Mr.  Dethwaite,  when  she  was 
suddenly  inspired.  Her  fingers  flew  over  the  keys.  She 
far  surpassed  the  most  admirable  performance  of  Madame 
Delano. 

Again  she  was  called  upon  for  a  song.  She  sung  one  touch- 
ing and  sweet.  As  she  ceased,  a  whisper  met  her  ear,  and  iu 
low  tones  her  husband  repeated  : 

"  And  as  thy  bright  lips  sung,  they  caught 
So  beautiful  a  raj', 
That  as  I  gazed,  I  almost  thought 

The  spirit  of  thy  lay 
Had  left  while  melting  in  the  air 

Its  sweet  expression  painted  there." 


45^i: 


Flora  looked  at  the  page  of  music  wliich  her  husband  held. 
It  contained  no  words  like  those  he  spoke.  She  thanked  hira 
with  her  eyes,  and  rose  serenely  happy.  She  had  fully  grati- 
fied his  pride.  Mr.  Clarendon  then  sought  Cora  Livingston, 
to  request  her  to  play  ;  but  at  the  , moment  supper  was 
announced.  Accordingly  he  led  the  way  to  the  entertainment 
with  Cora,  while  his  wife  followed  with  Mr.  Dethwaite.  Miss 
Dethwaite  proceeded,  escorted  by  Colonel  Livingston,  who  was 
in  a  complacent  mood,  having  an  inherent  passion  for  English 
aristocracy,  and  being  now  in  the  enjoyment  of  society,  whoso 
rank  equalled  that  of  his  ancestors. 

The  entertainment  befitted  the  occasion,  yet  Flora  forgot 
that  she  was  mistress  of  the  feast,  that  on  her  reflected  the 
honor  of  the  occasion.  She  knew  only  that  she  had  wrested 
her  husband  from  a  precipice  of  danger,  and  that  he  had  proved 
to  her  his  devotion  and  love.  She  felt  that  she  had  bruised 
the  head  of  the  serpent,  even  at  the  door  of  her  own  Paradise  ; 
and  expelled  it  in  its  glittering  beauty,  as  sin  was  driven  from 
the  bower  of  Eden. 


But  all  at  last  was  over,  and  the  "  banquet-hall  deserted." 
The  lights  still  burn  in  the  flower-strewn  rooms  of  merriment, 
and  gay  voices  are  silent  in  the  lately  thronged  apartments 
The  revellers  have  gone,  and  Flora  and  her  husband  are  alone. 

]S^ot  a  word  is  said  by  either,  of  the  incident  uppermost  in 
their  thoughts.  But  deep  tenderness  soothes  the  heart  of 
the  young  wife,  and  tones  gushing  with  fondness  plead  the 
word  forgive  ! 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  his  cage. 

Dr.  Johnson. 

i^  T  SHOULD  like,  my  daughter,"  said  Colonel  Livingston  to 
1  Cora,  "  to  invite  Mr.  Dethwaite  and  his  sister  to  dine 

with  us  this  week." 
"  Well,  papa." 


Isora's    Guild.  455 

"Al?c»  your  aunt  Livingstou,  Mrs.  Sidney,  the  Clarendons, 
and  a  few  others.  We  will  have  the  circle  very  select,  and 
endeavor  to  entertain  thera  handsomely.  Their  engagements 
are  so  numerous  it  will  be  well  to  invite  them  to-day." 

"Shall  I  do  so?'' 

**  Yes,  and  propose  Thursday  next.  TVe  will  engajre  an 
extra  professional  cook,  so  that  nothing  shall  fail  in  the  dinner 
arrangements,  and  all  I  ask  of  you,  is  to  keep  Judy  out  of  sight, 
and  to  have  the  silver  polished,  and  the  largest  pieces  conspi- 
cuously arranged  ;  the  pitchers,  tankards,  and  waiters.  Bring- 
out  the  old  cutglass.  There  are  now-a-days,  so  much  mushroom 
gentility,  and  so  much  washed  splendor,  that  antique  things, 
however  worn  and  dull,  show  well.  I  would  have  nothing  go 
wrong  on  this  occasion,  for  the  price  of  the  homestead." 

Colonel  Livingston  looked  about  on  his  house  and  premises, 
with  renew^ed  satisfaction  ;  he  was  glad  that  so  much  of  its 
old-fashioned  appearance  was  preserved,  and  thought,  at  this 
moment,  that  every  stiff,  high-backed  chair,  sentinelled  about 
the  large  wainscoted  rooms,  worth  each  its  weight  in  gold. 
The  old  heavy  curtains  too,  hung  well  ;  every  fold  in  the  flow- 
ered damask  made  him  think  of  his  grandmother's  rich  brocades, 
that  could,  seemingly,  as  well  walk  alone,  as  propelled  by  her 
dignified  ladyship.  The  carpet  of  the  drawing-rooms  was  worn, 
and  faded,  but,  at  this  moment,  he  would  not  have  exchanged  it 
for  the  newest  and  most  splendid,  for  upon  it  the  old  stock  of 
the  Livingstons  had  trod  in  their  silken  hose,  and  knee-buckles, 
making  every  thread  of  it  of  priceless  value. 

Although  the  Colonel's  new  ])ossessions  had  brought  him 
new  pains,  new  anxieties,  and  new  responsibilities,  he  would 
have  risked  the  most  incurable  gout,  rather  than  go  back  to 
liis  former  humble  style'  of  living.  So  he  felt  to-day  ;  for  he 
had  now  an  opportunity  of  entertaining  the  aristocracy  of  Eng- 
land, in  a  style  befitting  his  position.  His  daughter,  also,  he 
thanked  Heaven,  had  allied  herself  to  no  low-bred  scion  of 
America's  democracy,  but,  in  her  loveliness,  was  still  a  match 
worthy  of  an  English  nobleman.  He  felt  that  she  had  had  a 
narrow  escape  from  a  degrading  alliance,  but  that  her  old  love- 
a flair  had  fortunately  resulted  in  a  harmless  correspondence. 
He  considered  her  in  no  danger  of  burying  herself  in  a  log  hut 
in  Virginia  ;  and  as  he  nursed  his  gouty  foot,  and  dreamed  in 
his  old-fashioned  chair,  which  forbade  any  curvature  of  the 
spine,  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  that  the  English  widowei 


456  Isoka's    Child. 

might  not  improbably  pay  his  addresses  to  his  daughter,  and  at 
last,  save  her  from  the  dangerous  chasm  of  an  unsuitable  mar- 
riage in  a  country  which  levelled  all  ranks. 

He  had  but  one  objection  to  inviting  Mrs.  Clarendon  on  this 
occasion,  for,  well  connected  as  she  was,  who  knew  the  history 
of  her  birth,  or  the  position  of  her  family  ?  and  the  subject  of 
genealogy  might  be  broached,  and  he  verily  believed  if  she  was 
the  daughter  of  a  tinker,  that  she  would  own  it,  if  only  to  mor- 
tify him.  Still  he  thought  so  much  style  and  rank  as  would 
to-day  be  exhibited,  must  awe  the  most  thoughtless,  and  he 
meant  that  everything  should  be  conducted  in  a  manner  suit- 
able to  the  dignity  of  the  occasion. 

But  the  reader  must  remember  that  these  thoughts  were 
entirely  private,  for  Colonel  Livingston,  with  all  his  peculiarities, 
was  a  gentleman. 

The  invitations  were  sent  and  accepted,  and  on  the  day 
appointed  the  father  and  daughter  resorted  to  the  drawing- 
room  of  "  The  Park,*'  where  every  article  of  furniture  had  appa- 
rently acquired  new  dignity,  so  stiff  and  unbending  stood 
both  drapery  and  mahogany.  With  these  rooms,  Cora  had 
little  to  do,  or  they  would  have  better  harmonized  with  herself. 
The  ot'ier  apartments  in  the  house  were  airy  and  tasteful,  and 
were  not  kept  in  such  grand  order,  so  that  Cora  seldom  went 
into  the  gloomy  large  parlors  ;  for  here  Mr.  Roger  Wilton 
had  shot  himself,  which  on  her  mind,  was  a  much  more  distinct 
vision  than  the  powder-puffed  and  knee-buckled  forms  of  her 
ancestors. 

But  to- day,  with  her  father,  she  had  surveyed  each  piece  of 
tapestry  and  painted  canvas  ;  and  had  well  shaken  out  each 
fold  of  thick  damask,  and  so  opened  the  window-shutters  that 
not  an  object  of  faded  family  grandeur  should  be  hidden  from 
the  view  ;  and  after  ascertaining  from  her  father's  satislied 
countenance  that  all  was  sufficiently  imposing,  she  went  to  the 
dining-rooms  to  see  that  arrangements  there  were  perfect. 

Cora  found  the  table  already  laid,  everything  new  being 
cautiously  discarded.  On  every  shining  piece  of  silver,  the 
Livingston  crest  was  distinctly  visible,  and  disposed  with  policy 
and  effect. 

*'  Does  the  position  of  the  dragon  suit  your  honor  ?"  said  the 
consequential  woolly-headed  master  of  ceremonies.  "  I  have 
been  endeavoring  to  place  him  in  all  instances,  with  his  head 
up." 


Isora's    Child.  157 

Cora  laughed,  and  the  Colonel  reddened.  "  What  is  this  ?" 
said  the  latter,  opening-  a  covered  basket  just  received  from 
New  York — "  Go  away,  Judy  : — don't  you  lay  fingers,  girl,  on 
an  article  in  this  room,  and  if  you  come  nearer  the  house  than 
the  buckwheat  field  to  day,  I'll  discharge  you." 

"  Why,  papa,"  said  Cora,  her  glossy  ringlets  falling  over 
the  bosket,  "  this  is  from  aunt  Livingston,  for  the  table  to- 
day ;  her  superb  caster-stand  1  and  massive  silver  pitchers  ! 
here  also  are  the  old  china  mugs  that  belonged  to  great  grand- 
father somebody  !" 

"  Very  kind  of  her  truly — place  them  in  view,  Smithson." 

"  And  put  these  beautiful  flowers  in  the  centre  ;  look  at 
them  !  are  they  not  exquisite  ?"  said  Cora,  **  and  these  cut 
glass  goblets  will  look  pretty  too." 

"  Leave  all  to  Smithson,  my  daughter" — an  injunction  which 
well  pleased  Cora,  for  she  felt  how  great  to-day  was  the  re- 
sponsibility of  pleasing  her  father. 

"  Now  go  and  dress,  my  daughter,  chey  w^ill  arrive  by  six," 
Cora  tripped  over  the  staircase  to  her  chamber,  and  thought- 
less of  the  grandeur  on  the  way,  and  the  grandeur  below 
stairs,  had  a  frolic  with  her  little  squirrel,  that  Wilton  had 
left,  and  then  after  reading  over,  and  kissing  his  last  letter, 
abstractedly  commenced  the  operations  of  her  toilette. 

Her  ringlets  were  soon  arranged  in  their  sunny  waves  ;  and 
her  airy  figure  in  snowy  muslin  folds  of  lace  and  diamonds, 
completing  her  attire. 

She  seemed  no  part  of  the  stately  magnificence  of  the  estab- 
lishment ;  but  by  her  father,  Hke  a  young  rose  bud  against  a 
pedestal  of  bronze. 

The  company  have  arrived  ;  and  have  been  ushered  into  the 
reception  chamber,  while  Cora  and  her  father  await  them 
below — all  but  Flora  Clarendon,  who  has  caught  a  view  of 
Cora  and  hastened  forward  to  greet  her,  in  defiance  of  the 
majestic  wave  of  the  footman,  who  stands  like  a  picture  of 
Washington,  upon  a  tavern  sign — one  arm  extended,  while  his 
eyes  peer  aloft.  The  rest  of  the  company  obeyed  the  signal — 
but  Mrs.  Clarendon,  as  usual,  followed  her  impulses.  The 
greeting  once  over,  Flora  ascended  the  staircase  ;  where  at  the 
head  of  it  her  husband  awaited  her,  while  she  went  to  her 
dressing  room.  Here  she  found  Miss  Dethwaite,  in  a  simple 
and  elegant  costume,  as  unpretending  as  herself  in  her  appear- 
ance.     A  cordial,  even  affectionate  greeting,  passed  between 

20 


45S  I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child. 

them.  Flora  was  in  delicate  health  ;  and  seemed  regardless 
of  all  but  her  comfort  ;  her  dress  was  graceful  and  becoming — 
she  wore  few  ornaments,  and,  Miss  Dethwaite  thought,  was  so 
classically  beautiful  that  she  needed  none.  She  had  already 
caught  a  view  of  Cora's  room,  and  her  pet  squirrel,  and  in 
defiance  of  the  frowns  of  her  husband  at  her  delay,  had  stopped 
to  play  with  it. 

Her  ringing  laugh  met  Cora's  ear,  who  longed  to  go  and 
see  what  had  amused  the  gay  Flora,  but  her  father  would  not 
have  approved  of  her  absenting  herself  from  the  parlor,  so  she 
patiently  awaited  the  advent  of  the  visitors.  Soon,  ease  and 
freedom  pervaded  the  stitf  drawing-rooms,  and  none  more  aided 
in  unbending  the  usual  frigidity  of  the  hour  before  dinner,  than 
the  English  guests.  Mr.  Clarendon  was  at  home,  and  as  usual 
courteous,  elegant,  and  agreeable.  His  piquant  wife  was 
anything,  and  everything  she  pleased  to  be,  and  just  now  full 
of  caprices.  So  Cora  indulged  her  in  all  her  whims,  one  of 
which  was  to  take  a  stroll  through  the  grounds,  and  visit  the 
tombstones  under  the  willows.  Her  husband  protested  that 
the  ground  was  damp,  but,  with  a  pretty  defiant  shake  of  the 
head,  she  amused  herself  as  she  liked,  and  much  to  Cora's 
diversion,  and  the  Colonel's  shocked  taste,  had  left  the  drawing- 
"oom,  and  wandered  off.  Ko  one  followed  her,  for  she  said 
hat  she  preferred  going  alone,  but  tlie  Colonel  was  much 
amazed  to  see  her  from  the  parlor  window,  far  down  on  the 
grounds,  in  conversation  with  Jndy — whom  he  supposed  had 
been  sent  off  the  premises.  Judy  had  changed  a  good  deal  the 
past  year,  but  the  alteration  had  come  over  her  so  gradually 
that  the  prejudiced  Colonel  couM  not  see  it — and  she  was  still 
in  his  eyes  the  same  "  troublesome  child  ; "  but  Cora  did  not 
think  so — kindness  could  do  anything  with  Judy,  and  even 
now,  grown  as  she  was,  she  would  hunt  hens'  eggs,  all  day,  if 
slie  deemed  that  Miss  Cora  thought  she  appeared  better  at  i> 
distance. 

So  when  Mrs.  Clarendon  beckoned  to  her,  to  come  and  tic 
up  her  slipper,  Judy  cautiously  leaped  the  fence,  and  retreated 
again  over  the  stile,  saying  that  she  had  an  errand  at  one  of 
the  neighbors, 

"  Well,  then,  run  quickly,"  said  Flora,  "and  take  thi? 
flower  for  your  services." 

The  action  and  smile  took  the  heart  of  Judy.  It  was  a 
trille,  but  the  pleasure  it  gave  the  child  lasted  her  through  th(? 


I  s  o  K  a'  s    Child.  459 

day.  Mis.  Chirendon  came  in  before  dinner,  and  was  ready  to 
follow  the  Colonel  and  Miss  Dethwaite  to  the  sumptuous  euter- 
tainment,  which  actually  dimmed  the  watery  eyes  of  the  host, 
and  dazzled  those  of  the  admiring  guests,  such  perfection  of 
taste,  such  elegance  and  luxury  was  displayed  at  the  feast. 

The  guests  all  appropriately  seated,  and  the  Englishman  at 
the  right  of  Cora,  who,  with  self-possession  and  grace,  placed 
herself  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  Colonel  was  entirely 
satisfied.  •  Smithson  had  outdone  himself  ;  and  the  cook  had 
equalled  a  pupil  of  Professor  Ude  in  his  department  of  science. 
Conversation  had  commenced  its  easy  flow — several  courses 
had  passed  from  the  cloth,  wine  had  plentifully  flowed,  and  all 
parties  seemed  in  the  height  of  humorous  enjoyment,  when  the 
hall  bell  loudly  rung,  and  the  sound  of  a  wheeled  vehicle  was 
heard  at  the  entrance  of  the  mansion.  The  superb  chandelier 
was  now  lighted  overhead,  while  the  drawn  curtains  excluded 
the  view  from  without.  A  souiid  of  voices,  as  if  in  debate,  was 
heard  in  the  area  ;  and  the  voice  of  the  head  waiter  audibly  to 
say:  "  They  are  at  dinner,  and  cannot  now  be  seen."  But 
notwithstanding  the  remonstrance,  which  became  more  terrilic, 
into  the  dining-room  walked  Mrs.  Jonsou,  with  hev  bandbox  in 
her  hand,  fresh  from  Goosegreen.  She  was  dressed  in  a  stiff 
w^atered  silk,  trimmed  with  bugles,  and  over  her  squeezed  up 
fat  shoulders  and  bosom  she  had  flung  a  bright  orange  colored 
scarf,  corresponding  with  the  same  hue  of  her  bonnet,  which 
sat  high  up  on  her  head.  Her  good-humored  face  was  adorned 
with  a  new  frisette,  and  altogether  with  the  smart  band-box, 
she  looked  like  what  she  was,  Mrs.  Jonson,  the  Goosegreen 
milliner.  The  guests  were  all  too  well-bred  to  stare,  or  to 
seem  shocked  by  this  ill-timed  intrusion,  though  Mr.  Claren- 
don could  ill-restrain  a  laugh  at  the  Colonel's  well-remembered 
old  housekeeper.  Cora's  emotions  were  of  mingled  dismay  and 
bewilderment,  for  she  knew  the  mortification  that  her  a})pearance 
would  cause  her  father.  At  first  she  dared  not  look  at  him, 
but  when  she  had  the  courage  to  do  so,  she  saw  that  he  had 
dropped  his  knife  and  fork  like  one  paralyzed.  But  Mrs, 
Jonson  was  likely  to  restore  his  sensibility.  Without  embar- 
rassment, she  seated  herself  in  a  conspicuous  rocking-chair,  and 
after  throwing  her  head  back,  said  : 

"  Well,  Miss  Cory,  this  is  something  like  ;  don't  stir  to 
shake  hands,  or  to  give  me  a  chair.  I  come  to  the  city  to  get 
the  fashions,  and  heard  that  you  and  Captain  Livestone  had 


460  Isora's    Child. 

had  a  lift,  and  thoug-ht  I'd  come  see  bow  things  worked  ;  and 
grand  enough  I  see  you  be — don't  have  to  pinch  now,  I  'spose, 
as  you  used  to  do  at  the  leaky  old  cottage.  This  ain't  much 
either  like  Groosegreen,  is  it,  Miss  Cory  ? — he  !  he  !  Lord, 
how  they  missed  you  after  you  and  the  Captain  left  Widow 

Smith's  " 

'*  Madam  !"    the    Colonel    thundered     the     second    ti-me, 

"  leave  " 

"  Didn't  miss  the  Captain  so  much,"  went  on  Mrs.  Jonson, 
not  heeding  the  Colouel.  "  By  the  way,  where's  that  spruce 
young  man  that  came  to  see  you  there  ?  The  gals  all  fell  in 
love  with  him  in  Goosegreen.  I  shall  tell  all  the  folks  how 
grand  you've  grown.     Lord,  where  did  you  get  such  a  sight 

of  silver" 

"Turn  this  woman" vociferated  the  Colonel,  while  even 

the  polished  guests  could  scarcely  restrain  their  mirth,  not- 
withstanding their  sympathy  for  their  agitated  host. 

"  There's  no  need  o'  turning  me,"  put  in  the  lady  milliner, 
"  I've  upset  arrangements  afore." 

"But,  Mrs.  Jonson,"  said  Cora,  with  dignity,    "if  you  will 

retire  now  " ■ — 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  the  least  tired.  Came  all  the  way  in 
Farmer  Smith's  wagon — first-rate  team — -just  as  lieves  wait 
till  you've  all  done,  seeing  as  you've  got  company — though  1 
ain't  used  to  second  tables,  now." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  over  the  grounds,"  inter- 
posed Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  I've  seen  you  before,"  laughed  out  the  old  housekeeper. 
"  Many  a  time,  when  you  was  sparking  Miss  Cora.  Lord  I 
didn't  I  see  through  a  millstone  ;  but  I  see  you  have  got  a 
woman  now,  and  a  plaguy  pretty  one,  too.  I've  got  a  bonnet 
in  my  shop  that  would  make  her  look  like  a  daisy." 

There  were  others  now  in  trouble,  besides  the  Colonel. 
Mr,  Clarendon's  love  affair  with  Cora  was  fully  published,  and 
three  persons  made  as  uncomfortable  by  it,  as  anything  could 
well  occasion  them.  But  Mrs.  Jonson,  by  this  time,  had 
found  out  that  there  was  an  Englishman  at  the  table,  and 
with  her  arms  a-kimbo,  rose  up  and  screamed  out  : 

"  Well,  if  I  hain't  got  something  to  tell  of  when  I  go  back 
to  Goosegreen — a  real  live  lord  I  I  didn't  believe  it  when  the 
blamed  nigger  tried  to  keep  me  out." 

But  Mrs.  Jonson's  voice  was  heard  no  more.     The  head 


Isora's    Child.  401 

waiter  had  been  now  personally  insulted — be  saw  the  dismay 
the  woman  had  occasioned,  and  gave  a  wink  to  the  footmen, 
who  approached  the  intruder  on  each  side,  seized  her  portly 
figure,  and  before  she  had  time  to  resist,  the  Goosegreeu 
milliner  found  herself  at  the  gate  of  the  avenue,  while  her 
band-box  followed  her,  kicked  out  by  the  remaining  waiter, 
caps  and  ribbons  strewing  the  avenue.  She  did  not  return, 
and  composure,  after  a  great  effort,  was  restored  at  the  dinner- 
party. 

Still  the  deepened  rose  on  the  cheek  of  Cora,  and  the  paler 
shade  that  Flora's  face  assumed,  showed  that  other  feelings 
had  been  aroused  besides  those  of  mortified  pride. 

The  Colonel  endeavored  to  recover  himself— he  wished  to 
frame  an  apology,  but  could  only  utter  : 

"  This  woman  is  an  old  discharged  servant,  and  for  purposes 
of  revenge,  she  has  committed  this  outrage." 

"  Don't  let  the  disturbance  annoy  you,  my  dear  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Dethwaite,  "  on  our  account." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  his  sister,  with  a  smile. 

"  Quite  an  amusing  episode,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  What  did  she  say  she  was  ;  a  green  goose,  Cora  dear  ?" 
said  aunt  Livingston.     "  What  did  she  refer  to  ?" 

"To  Goosegreen,"  said  Cora,  frankly.  "The  name  of  a 
village  where  we  Hved  a  short  time." 

"Travelling,  dear  ?  I  suppose." 

The  Colonel  looked  imploringly  at  Cora.  But  she  could  not 
see  herself  disgraced  by  her  brief  residence  in  an  obscure 
village,  and  said  : 

"  No,  aunt,  we  made  it  our  home  while  in  this  poetically 
named  village,  in  the  same  place  where  this  woman  lives  in  the 
capacity  of  a  milliner." 

"  A  good  explanation,"  said  Mr.  Dethwaite,  with  a  smile, 
delighted  with  Cora's  ingenuousness,  "  and  so,  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence from  jealousy,  she  has  come  to  insult  you,  in  a  differ- 
ent situation.  Such  is  poor  human  nature.  It  is,  after  all,  the 
degree,'  or  want  of  philosophy  required  in  such  cont rc-temjps  that 
makes  up  the  amount  of  evil  done  in  the  matter." 

"  1  dare  say  that  she  may  be,  in  her  place,  a  very  good  sort 
of  a  woman,"  said  Miss  Dethwaite. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cora,  laughing,  "for  a  coarse  specimen  she  is, 
and  feels  her  elevation  as  much  from  the  situation  of  a  servant 
to  a  milliner,  as  others  do  in  the  higher  grades  of  society." 


462 


The  Colonel  could  not  as  easily  recover  himself  ;  he  was  as 
silent  as  Flora,  during  the  dessert.  Serenity  was  at  last 
restored,  and  an  unusual  efifort  made  by  Cora  and  Mr.  Claren- 
don to  dissipate  from  the  remembrance  of  the  party,  the  ridicu- 
lous and  disagreeaVjle  interruption  to  their  enjoyment. 

All  but  the  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Clarendon,  seemed  to  recover 
their  agreeable  powers  ;  but  the  former  had  had  a  blow  to  his 
pride,  from  which  he  could  not  easily  recover  ;  and  poor  Flo- 
ra was  absorbed  in  the  thought  that  her  husband  had  once 
been  a  suitor  of  Cora  Livingston.  Here  was  no  art,  no  seduc- 
tive vice  to  combat,  but  the  innocence  and  purity  of  a  young 
girl,  whom  it  seemed  to  her,  impossible  not  to  love.  As  she 
looked  at  the  lovely  girl,  now  radiant  with  recovered  animation, 
she  wondered  that  she  had  not  before  thought  her  irresistible. 
"  Why,  then,"  she  asked  .herself,  *'  had  her  husband  not  won 
and  married  her,  instead  of  herself,  a  poor  girl,  without  birth 
or  connections  ?  Had  she  refused  him  ?''  Her  pride,  as  well 
as  adoration  of  her  husband,  forbade  the  thought. 

After  leaving  the  dining-room,  the  party  amused  themselves 
in  the  parlors,  save  Flora,  who  proposed  to  Cora  to  walk  with 
her  on  the  avenue.  The  latter  consented,  and  the  two  former 
rivals  were  locked  arm  in  arm  in  close  conversation.  The 
frankness  and  ingenuousness  of  Flora  forbade  concealment  of 
the  thoughts  that  disturbed  her,  and  after  pacing  the  walk 
several  times,  she  said  to  Cora  : 

"  Will  you  tell  me  ? — did  the  woman  speak  truly  ?  Did  my 
husband  ever  love  you,  Cera  ?" 

**  I  can  answer  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Clarendon,  truthfully, 
and  tell  you  that  I  know  that  he  never  did  ;  but  I  will  not 
deceive  you,  there  was  a,  time  when  he,  perhaps,  thought  he 
loved  me." 

"  And  had  forgotten  me  ?  Oh,  this  is  foolish,  but  I  do  not 
like  to  believe  it." 

"  Nor  do  believe  it,  my  Flora,"  said  the  husband,  coming 
upon  the  strollers  from  a  side  path,  *'  but  you  will  remember 
that  there  was  a  time  when  we  were  widely  separated.  Cora^ 
was  it  not  so  ?" 

"  I  knew,"  said  Cora,  with  a  bright  blush,  "  that  he  had  never 
a  wdiole  heart  to  offer  me  ;  and  I  was  sure  that  another  had 
my  own." 

"  And  you  love  another,  as  I  do  my  husband,"  said  the  fond, 
artless  wife,  clinging  confidingly  to  the  arm  offered  her. 


I  s  0  r.  a'  s    G  II I  L  D  .  4rG3 

"  I  do,  my  dear  friend,  and  this  is  wliy  I  am  so  frank  vvitli  you. 
Let  tlie  words  of  this  coarse  woman  pass  from  your  thou<>-hts, 
and  remember  that  when  I  shared  your  husbands  gallantry 
with  others,  like  a  bewildered  traveller,  he  had  lost  his  iruidin*^^ 
star. ' 

'*  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon.  "  I  ought  to  have  saved 
this  wound,  for  I  confess,  even  before  my  wife,  to  the  magic  of 
all  loveliness." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  did  not  appreciate  our  Cora,"  said 
Flora  affectionately. 

"  And  are  not  jealous  now  ?"  queried  the  husband. 

"  I  can  never  be  jealous,"  replied  Flora,  proudly  ;  '*  never 
fear  that — but  my  faith  in  my  husband  must  be  whole." 

The  strollers,  after  wandering  over  the  grounds,  returned  to 
the  house,  and  in  a  short  time  left  for  their  own  homes.  The 
dinner  party  had  been  a  delightful  one  to  all  but  the  Colonel  ; 
and  his  enjoyment  had  received  a  blow  from  which  it  would 
take  him  long  to  recover.  "  For  what,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self, "had  he  assembled  at  his  elegant  mansion  so  select  a 
circle  ?  For  what  but  to  gratify  his  pride,  and  to  reflect  honor 
upon  himself  as  one  of  a  distinguished  name.  Why  had  he  taken 
pains  to  exhibit  his  ancestral  possessions,  but  to  show  his  con- 
sequence, and  position,  and  how  by  the  ill-will  and  revenge  of 
a  low-bred  woman,  had  his  former  circumstances  been  exhibited, 
and  his  recent  poverty  exposed." 

Petty  as  was  this  annoyance,  it  served  to  embitter,  the  mind 
of  the  arrogant  and  courtly  host,  and  to  make  him  feel  that, 
like  a  farce,  his  family  standing  and  position  had  been  repre- 
sented. He  considered  himself  disgraced  and  fallen.  The  veil 
of  splendor  which  had  been  to-day  cast  over  his  fortunes,  had 
been  torn  aside,  and  the  naked  truth  of  the  past  been  laid 
before  those  to  whom  he  had  been  ambitious  to  represent  him- 
self, as  one  of  the  few  that  could  boast  in  America  a  local 
habitation  and  a  name.  But  now  with  what  were  both  asso- 
ciated ?  With  the  humblest  of  homes,  and  worse,  with  an 
abiding  residence  in  an  obscure  village,  bearing  so  rustic  a 
name — Colonel  Livingston,  of  Groosegreen  !  'Such  he  had  been 
represented,  and  as  one  who  had  risen  like  a  mushroom,  in  a 
night,  to  wealth  and  luxury. 

■Che  dinner  had  vanished,  with  all  its  splendor  ;  the  old- 
fashioned  chairs,  with  their  antique  backs,  had  been  metinior 
pho.sed  to  wooden-bottomed  seats  ;  the  crested  silver,  b.nirinf'- 


464  Isoka's    Child. 

his  name,  bad  changed  to  the  widow's  blue  crockery.  On  his 
visiou,  too,  came  the  baked  custards,  in  the  good  woman's 
burnt  cups  ;  and  the  slanting  pile  of  feathers,  on  which  he  had 
dreamed  of  his  present  good  fortune.  He  was  again  in  the 
whitewashed  chamber — the  splendid  mirror  before  him  had 
changed  to  the  little  crooked  glass,  with  its  asparagus  adorn 
ment.  He  saw  nothing  before  him  now  but  Goosegreen,  and 
its  hateful  milliner. 

Thus  was  the  noble  nature  of  Edward  Livingston  over- 
shadowed by  one  mighty  failing — the  pride  that  obscured  his 
virtues,  and  spread  -like  a  mantle  over  a  character  of  original 
brightness.  Born,  as  he  veritably  was^  of  a  noble  stock,  heir 
to  a  name  as  good  as  his  native  land  can  boast — a  name  dis- 
tinguished alike  for  high  breeding,  virtue,  and  talent,  still  he 
had  not  sufficient  greatness  of  soul  to  show  the  hero  under  circum- 
stances that  could  not  degrade  the  man,  however  much  they 
might  reduce  his  purse.  How  uulike  was  the  spirit  he  manifested 
to  that  of  his  noble-hearted  child — who,  under  all  circum- 
stances, and  all  afSictions,  under  all  the  humiliating  incidents  to 
their  lot,  and  more  with  the  sudden  accession  to  great  wealth, 
had  preserved  her  humility  of  character  without  the  loss  of  self- 
respect. 

She  saw  herself  as  but  an  atom  in  the  great  universe,  and 
like  the  humblest  of  God's  creatures,  on  the  passage  to  tlie 
same  bourne  where  all  ranks  are  levelled,  and  all  pride  is  brought 
low.  She  had  long  since  deplored  her  father's  adoration  of 
wealth  and  high  station,  and  to  see  its  utter  worthlessuess  to 
bring  happiness  to  the  heart  that  craves  its  honors  and  pleasures 
as  its  food. 

Cora  sought  her  parent  after  the  departure  of  their  guests, 
and  grieved  to  see  how  trifling  an  event  had  demolished  his 
day's  happiness — and  more,  to  feel  that  his  old  enemy  still  held 
him  in  his  grasp.  Too  proud  to  own  his  discomfiture,  even  to 
his  daughter,  the  Colonel  roused  from  his  mood  of  irritability, 
and  vented  spitefully  upon  his  foot  and  his  "  blockheaded  phy- 
sicians," the  spleen  and  mortification  that  he  would  not  have 
confessed  to  his  dog. 

That  he  was  really  afflicted  in  body  and  mind  Cora  knew, 
and  her  tears  of  sympathy  fell  in  secret  for  her  suffering  parent, 
who  had  founded  his  happiness  for  a  long  life,  on  so  chimerical 
a  basis,  which,  although  his  hopes  had  been  realized,  proved 
so  futile  a  source  of  joy. 


Isora's    Child.  4G5 

She  contrasted  the  peaceful  life  that  they  had  led  at  Yilla- 
cora,  the  competence  upon  which  they  were  sustained  in  her 
early  years,  and  the  regularity  and  quiet  of  their  home,  which 
preserved  the  health  of  his  body,  and,  in  a  comparative  degree, 
brought  tranquillity  to  his  mind,  with  the  unhealthy  excitement, 
the  cares,  and  responsibilities  of  his  present  position,  and 
looked  at  the  result.  What  did  she  now  see  in  his  situation  to 
compensate  for  wiiat  he  had  lost  ?  The  greater  part  of  a  life 
sacrificed  in  anticipation,  and  the  remainder  blasted  by  wounded 
pride,  and  disappointment,  in  failing  to  realize  to  the  fullest 
extent  of  his  wishes,  the  joys  of  wealth  and  position.  It  is 
true  he  had  the  homage  that  is  paid  to  the  rich,  and  Edward 
Livingston  graciously  welcomed  his  flatterers  to  his  hospitable 
board  ;  but  could  he  in  secret  fail  to  remember,  that  when  he  was 
poor  he  was  deserted  by  them  ?  Could  he  fail  to  see  that  many 
that  now  seemed  to  worship  and  admire  his  beautiful  daughter, 
had  been  hitherto  regardless  of  the  little  wood-flower  that  had  so 
suddenly  bloomed  into  the  perfection  of  loveliness  ?  No,  in  the 
private  chambers  of  his  heart  these  convictions  rankled,  and 
here  he  rightly  estimated  the  homage  paid  to  the  rich,  and  the 
value  of  such  friendship  as  is  based  on  worldly  pelf.  And  yet 
such  is  human  nature,  that  with  the  weathercock  of  fortune 
also  change  both  eddying  currents.  The  shifting  of  the  vane 
does  not  alone  affect  the  parasite  who  fawns  :  the  suddenly 
rich  as  readily  receive  their  new  worshipers,  but  in  secret 
they  appreciate  them  in  all  their  hollowness,  and,  like  "  whited 
sepulchres,"  they  view  their  summer  friends,  that  they  now 
feed,  but  who  once  passed  them  coldly  by.  Cora's  efforts 
proved  unavailing  to-night  to  soothe  her  father,  so  she  retired 
to  her  chamber,  where  her  mind  roved  as  well  as  her  parent's 
from  the  splendor  and  display  which  had  so  dazzled  their  eyes  ; 
but  hers  went  over  hill  and  dale,  with  a  swift  and  joyous  bound, 
to  the  little  log  hut  in  Virginia. 


20^ 


4.GQ  Isoea's    Child. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

It  lay  upon  its  mother's  breast,  a  thing 

Bright  as  a  dew  drop,  when  it  first  descends, 

Or  as  the  plumage  of  an  angel's  wing, 

Where  every  tint  of  rainbow-beauty  blends. 

Mrs.  AA'elbt. 

THE  "  silver  cage,"  as  Benson  calls  Flora's  pretty  chamber, 
is  now  veiled  in  a  softer  light  ;  for  a  tiny  warbler  is  there 
with  unfieclged  wings,  and  its  young  mother  calls  it  her  "bird," 
her  "  little  nestling,"  as  it  lies  hushed,  a  beautiful  thing,  in  her 
bosom.  Her  delicate  fingers  lie  caressingly  among  its  fleecy 
curls,  while  her  eyes  rest  with  rapture  upon  the  velvet  lips, 
and  soft  cheek  of  her  new  darling. 

She  is  never  wearied  looking  at  her  baby,  and  wonders  and 
grieves  that  its  father  has  not  come  to  welcome  it,  such  a 
"  dear  little  puss  as  it  is." 

How  new  and  thrilling  are  her  sensations  !  with  what 
wonder,  and  delight,  she  feels  that  the  little  one  in  her  arms,  is 
all  her  own,  and  how  much  dearer  in  this  hour,  has  he  become 
who  will  claim  the  precious  treasure  alike  with  herself  !  How 
full  of  love  and  gratitude  her  heart  is  filled,  and  how  fervently 
goes  up  to  Heaven  her  thanks  that  she  has  lived  to  clasp  to 
her  beating  heart,  this  last  sweet  gift  of  God. 

But  the  husband  and  father  is  ignorant  of  his  wife's  hap- 
piness, and  is  laggard  in  returning  homeward.  As  he  turned 
a  corner,  a  carriage  drove  up  close  to  the  sidewalk,  on  which 
he  was  passing  when  a  lady  spoke  from  the  window,  and 
beckoned  to  him. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  approaching 
her,  and  taking  the  proffered  hand  of  the  lady.  "  I  am  in 
haste." 

"  Ah !  but  one  moment  !"  The  lady  spoke  beseechingly. 
"  I  have   something   to  say  to  you."     The  hand  of  Madame 


Isora's    Child.  4G7 

Delano  now  rested  on  the  arm  of  her  old  admirer.  "  You 
owe  it  to  me — Clarendon.  You  are  bound  by  the  honor  of  a 
gentleman  to  make  me  some  reparation  for  the  injury  done 
me." 

"  Pardon  me,  but  now  " 

"  But  what  I  would  say,  is  important."  The  lady  still  clung 
to  the  arm  that  rested  upon  the  carriage. 

"  You  are  looking,  as  well  as  I  can  see,  very  gay  and  lovely 
— bound  to  some  party,  I  suppose — to-night  ?" 

"  Come  inside  one  moment,  I  will  not  detain  yon,  and  will 
drop  you  nearer  home," 

"  Well,"  said  the  gentleman,  looking  around  him,  opening 
and  then  closing  the  door  of  the  vehicle,  while  he  seated  him- 
self by  the  side  of  the  lady. 

*'  Now  drop  the  curtain,  for  I  must  speak  to  you — if  it  is  for 
the  last  time." 

"  Be  quick,  then,  Eugenie.  You  must  be  aware  that  I  am 
imprudent  in  this." 

"  Pshaw  !  your  lady-bird  is  a  prisoner  now  ;  and  you  are  at 
liberty,  thank  Heaven.  I  have  not  seen  you  since  the  night  I 
experienced  her  superb  hospitality  ;  and  witnessed  the  courage 
and  gallantry  of  her  very  dutiful  husband." 

"  Is  this  to  be  the  tone  and  import  of  your  very  important 
intelligence  ?"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  impatiently. 

"  No,  this  is  not  all."  The  lady's  voice  became  softer,  and 
full  of  wounded  feeling.  ''Do  you  think  that  I  can  have 
nothing  to  say  to  you  since  our  long  separation  ?  Can  you, 
as  a  gentleman,  and  a  man  of  honor,  pass  me  in  public, 
unnoticed,  in  the  same  circles  where  I  have  received  your 
civilities  and  devotion  ?  Will  you,  too,  scorn  me,  as  well  as 
your  insulting  wife  ?" 

"  Eugenie,  you  are  too  sensitive — I  cannot  offend  her.  I 
have  endeavored  to  reconcile  her  to  you ;  what  can  I  do 
more  ?" 

"You  can  show  her  that  you  defy  her  tyranny.  You, 
Clarendon,  under  the  government  of  a  wife  !  ha  1  ha  !  who 
would  have  believed  it  a  year  since  ?  I  have  been  outraged  in 
your  own  house,  by  botli  her,  and  yourself  ;  and  I  will  have 
my  revenge  !  I  will  mortify  you  both,  as  you  have  done  me 
—but  where  it  will  cut  more  keenly.  These  lordly  Dethwaites 
Rliall  know  the  aristocratic  birth  and  spotless  reputation  of 
your  immaculate  wife."     A  sneer  curled  the  lip  of  the  lady. 


463  IsoKA's    Child. 

"  Cease  !"  interposed  Mr.  Clarendon,  enraged.  "  Regara 
your  words." 

"  No — I  will  not,  until  I  have  been  fully  revenged  for  her 
insults.  Unless  you  conform  to  my  conditions,  I  will  inform 
your  English  friends  of  all  that  I  know  ;  and  that  the  daugh- 
ter was  but  a  fair  sample  of  her  virtuous  mother !  Do  you 
imagine  that  I  do  not  know  her  history  ?  You  kept,  it  is  true, 
your  lady  mistress  securely  hid,  but  you  need  not  think  to 
palm  her  off  upon  the  world  as  a  gem  in  society.  The  proud, 
scornful " 

'•  Eugenie  Delano — cease  !  I  have  you  in  my  power — and 
if  one  word  of  slander  comes  from  your  poisonous  tongue 
respecting  my  wife,  I  will  blast  your  reputation  till  not  a  shred 
is  left  to  carry  you  where  you  would  vainly  attempt  to  injure 
her." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  have  any  wish  to  wound  or  injuro 
you  r 

*'.As  to  my  wife,  it  matters  not  what  malice  you  may  have 
at  your  heart  ;  and  to  injure  me  would  be  an  amusing  under- 
takino;."     Mr   Clarendon  laughed  sneeringly. 

"  Then  you  acknowledge  that  you  no  louger  love  me,  that 
you  even  hate  me,  notwithstanding" 

"  Eugenie,  I  have  not  said  that  I  hated  you,  but  I  do  say, 
that  I  love  and  venerate  my  wife  ;  you  traduce  her,  as  pure  as 
one  of  Heaven's  angels  !" 

"  Do  you  thrust  her  virtue  in  my  face  !  I  tell  you  that  I  will 
have  my  revenge  ;  do  you  think  that  1  have  preserved  no  billet- 
doux  of  yours  ;  do  you  think  that  '  your  beloved  Eugenie'  has 
nothing  by  which  to  remember  her  *  devoted  Clarendon  V  " 

"  When  those  were  penned  I  was  not  married." 

*'  But  I  was,  and  you  at  the  same  time  wooing  your  Hudson 
belle,  and  paying  private  homage  to  the  shrine  of  your  foreign 
empress.  Eugenie  Delano  has  not  spent  years  in  Paris,  and 
New  York,  and  become  obtuse  in  sight  or  intellect." 

"  But  you  seem  to  have  lost  your  Parisian  tongue,  and  have 
learned  to  speak  plain  English.  I  wdl  talk  with  you  another 
time  ;  I  must  leave  you  here." 

^  Do  you  wish  for  your  letters,  or  shall  I  send  them  to  your 
wife  ?" 

*'  An  exchange  might  be  as  well  for  you." 

"  Call  for  yours  then,  on  Thursday  night.  I  shall  be  at 
home  ;  remember  I  arn  angry  and  unless  you  come,  you  will 


Isoka's    Child.  469 

receive  them  from  a  dearer  source  ;  and  more,  I  will  publish 
to  your  English  friends,  all  I  know  of  my  worst  enemy." 
Bitterness  and  sarcasm  breathed  in  the  tones  of  the  deserted 
favorite. 

"  All  you  can  fabricate  you  mean.  Harm  my  wife  !  the 
idea  is  diverting  !  but  I  cannot,  pardon  me,  even  permit  you  so 
to  amuse  your  triends  ;  remember,  the  first  word,  and  you  shall 
never  tread  the  carpet  of  another  lady's  saloon  that  you  now 
visit.     I  will  annihilate  you  as  I  would  " 

"  And  you  thus  abuse  me  !"'sobbed  the  lady  in  a  hysterical 
passion  ;  "  come  for  your  letters,  and  I  will  recall  my  words.  1 
cannot  so  easily  forget  the  period  when  they  were  written." 

"  Why  then,  do  you  provoke  me  to  threaten  you  ?  You 
know  that  you  have  relied  upon  a  gentleman,  but  God  knows 
that  for  all  the  beautiful  women  in  New  York,  I  will  not 
abuse  the  trust  of  my  wife.  The  past  cannot  be  retrieved  ;  I 
pity  more  than  blame  you  ;  you  have  made  an  uncongenial 
marriage  ;  you  find  no  happiness  at  home,  and  I  would  advise 
you,  for  your  own  good.  Have  my  letiers  ready  when  I  call 
for  them,  and  I  will  bring  you  yours." 

With  these  words  Mr.  Clarendon  stopped  the  carriage  ;  he 
thought  of  Flora,  looked  at  his  watch,  and  hurried  onward. 
He  had  been  thoroughly  disgusted  and  irritated  with  the  beau- 
tiful woman  who  had  so  recently  fascinated  and  allured  him, 
and  proceeded  towards  home  reproached  and  remorseful 
Madame  Delano,  meanwhile,  dried  her  tears,  and  concocted  her 
plans  for  bringing  mortification  and  ruin,  if  she  could  effect  it, 
upon  both  the  heads  of  her  old  lover  and  his  haughty  wife. 
Had  she  not  received  the  scorn  and  neglect  of  the  latter,  she 
could  never  have  forgiven  his  adoration  of  her  rival. 

She  was  fully  convinced,  from  all  well-sifted  rumors,  and  the 
authority  on  which  she  willingly  relied,  that  the  independent 
lady  of  ton,  was  of  low  and  illegitimate  birth  ;  and  she  believed, 
however  ill-founded  might  be  the  whivspered  report,  that  cir- 
cumstances favored  the  circulation  of  a  tale  which  sullied  a 
reputation  hardly  to  be  redeemed  by  a  final  marriage  on  the 
part  of  tlie  faithful  lover.  Madame  Delano  reached  her  home 
in  an  exultant  frame  of  mind  ;  she  believed  that  her  hour  of 
revenge  was  near  at  hand,  and  resolved  that  art  should  accom- 
jpilish  all  that  appearances  failed  to  effect. 

At  the  hour  of  ten  Mr.  Clarendon  reached  home  ;  messages 
had  been  sent  him  in  every  part  of  the  city,  where  he  wasf 


470  Isoka's    Child. 

accustomed  to  resort.  Poor  Flora,  in  the  meanwhile,  hugged 
her  baby,  and  sighed  and  wondered  where  her  husband  was, 
when  he  had  promised  to  return  so  early. 

But  wiiile  listening  for  his  steps,  she  heard  a  servant  say  to 
Benson  that  he  "  was  seen  stepping  into  a  carriage  at  seven 
o'clock,  with  a  lady." 

Flora  was  excited  and  nervous,  and  now  giving  up  hope, 
uttered  a  faint  cry,  and  fell  back  upon  the  pillow  on  which  she 
had  risen.  For  a  while,  she  seemed  senseless,  so  still  and  calm 
she  reposed  ;  but  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes,  she  buried  her 
head,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

Poor  Flora  !  she  was  alone  with  her  first  born,  for  who  was 
there  in  the  wide  world  that  could  now  sympathize  with  her 
as  her  dear  husband  !  Benson  was  in  a  rage,  because  Master 
Louis  hadn't  come  home  to  see  the  child  ;  and  when  she  saw 
Flora's  tears  actually  dropping,  she  resolved  to  be  the  first  to 
greet  him,  for  she  knew  that  no  one  else  would  give  him  a 
"  piece  of  her  mind  "  as  she  could. 

Mr.  Clarendon  at  length  entered  the  hall-door  ;  Benson 
allowed  him  to  enter  the  library,  where  he  usually  first  looked 
for  Flora  ;  then  to  look  over  the  house  below,  and  afterwards 
approach  the  stair-case  to  go  to  his  chamber,  before  she  spoke. 
Then  arresting  him,  she  said, 

"  You  mustn't  go  up  there  ;  she's  got  company." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

*'  Why,  enough  without  you — so  you  might  as  well  go 
along  to  bed." 

"  You  are  witty,  Mrs.  Benson.     Isn't  Mrs.  Clarendon  well  ?" 

"  She  is  well  enough." 

"  You  are  mysterious — where  is  she  ?" 

"  Well  stop — don't  go  so  fast,"  said  Benson,  holding  by  the 
coat-tail  the  impatient  husband.  "  Don't  go  busfin'  in — one 
would  think  you'd  never  seen  a  young  'un." 

"  Let  me  alone,  you  are  enough  to  provoke  a  saint." 

"  Which  you  ain't  exactly,  and  what's  more,  you  oughter 
been  here  three  hours  ago,  instead  of  gallivanting.  Well,  it's 
none  of  my  business,  but  I  hated  to  see  her  cryin'  her  eyes 
out,  silly  as  she  is." 

Mr,  Clarendon  heard  no  more — he  was  over  the  staircase, 
and  had  entered  his  wife's  chamber.  Dr.  Vale  met  him  with 
a  cordial  shake  of  the  hand,  which  spoke  his  congratulations, 
while  in  the  corner  of  the  shaded  room  sat  a  fat  woman,  knit* 


Isora's    Child.  471 

ting  a  blue  slocking.  As  yet,  the  fatlier  saw  no  signs  of  a 
baby.  He  had  an  indistinct  idea  of  something  that  might  be 
trotting  or  rolling  about  on  the  carpet;  there  was  a  cradle, 
too,  which  he  looked  at  but  saw  nothing  in  it.  He  thought 
Flora  might  be  asleep,  and  addressed  the  doctor. 

"  This  is  a  surprise  ;  but  I  am  a  philosophic  individual,  and 
prepared  for  all  evils,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon,  concealing  a  smile. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Quackenboss,  Mr.  Clarendon,"  added  the 
Doctor. 

Mr.  Clarendon  bowed  to  the  Quackenboss  and  blue  stock- 
ing, and  sat  down  by  the  doctor. 

Flora  heard  the  whispering,  and  manifested  her  satisfaction. 
The  next  moment  the  face  of  the  delighted  father  was  drawn 
towards  the  pale,  tearful  cheek  that  he  kissed  with  tender  emo- 
tion. Flora  fell  tliat  her  husband  was  as  happy  as  herself,  and 
she  cried  while  she  hid  her  face,  but  her  tears  were  those  of  joy. 

"  He  is  such  a  dear  little  thing  ?"  said  the  young  mother. 

"  AVon't  it  cry  ?" 

"  It's  eyes  are  so  beautiful  !" 

"  The  mouse  !  Hold  him  up.  Bring  a  light,  nurse,  I  want 
a  look  at  this  boy." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  the  corpulence  in  the  corner,  "  I  can't 
allow  any  light  there,  nor  the  babe  unrolled — put  it  in  the 
feathers,  I  always  keep  'em  under  'em  a  month." 

"  And  the  next  under  ground,  I  suppose.  Pull  him  up, 
Flora." 

Out  came  the  boy,  half-smothered,  and  full  of  grimaces.  Mr, 
Clarendon  felt  doubtful  about  appropriating  either  of  the 
varied  expressions  of  the  new  comer  to  himself.  Still  there 
was  a  twinkling  that  made  him  feel  assured  of  a  pair  of  eyes  ,- 
and  as  to  a  mouth,  the  sounds  that  issued  from  it,  were  con- 
vincing  proof  of  that  important  organ. 

"  Will  it  ever  stop  making  wry  faces  ?  What  do  you 
call  it  ?" 

"  Louis." 

At  this  moment  Benson  peeped  under  the  curtain,  and  see- 
ing the  situation  of  the  family  group,  pulled  out  a  red  hand- 
kerchief, and  blew  her  nose  from  excess  of  sensibility.  At 
this  moment,  Mr.  Clarendon  experienced  the  sharp  prick  of  her 
sharp  elbow,  while  she  signified  that  he  must  go.  But  a  more 
consequential  movement  was  soon  made.  Mrs.  Quackenboss 
was  on  her  way. 


472 


"  It's  time  to  shut  up,  now,"  said  the  fat  hxdy.  in  an  autho- 
ritative tone  ;  ''you  have  had  talk  enough — tliousands  of  it.  I 
suppose  there's  plenty  of  tea  made,  and  I  shouldn't  care  if  we 
had  a  wing  of  a  chicken,  to-night.  You'll  see  to  this,  house- 
keeper. I  sleeps  late,  and  doesn't  do  anything  but  see  that 
the  baby  " 

"  Breathes,"  interposed  Mr.  Clarendon,  retreating. 

Flora  was  soon  left  with  her  rolled  up  bundle  of  a  baby, 
and  made  much  happier  by  her  husband's  visit,  which  "  big 
Benson,"  as  Flora  called  her,  declared  was  the  saving  of  her. 

Mrs.  Quackenboss  bolted  the  door  after  Mr.  Clarendon, 
while  she  muttered  something  about  "  men  around  f  which 
sounds  came  from  under  such  fat  developments,  that  they  were 
scarcely  audible. 

A  few  days  after  the  excitement  of  the  present  occasion  had 
subsided,  Mr.  Clarendon  received  a  note  from  a  hotel  in  the 
city,  containing  the  card  of  Mrs.  Linden,  for  Flora.  He 
immediately  called  upon  the  lady,  delighted  with  the  opportu- 
nity to  show  his  respect  for  one  to  whom  he  owed  so  much. 
He  found  her  looking  well  and  happy.  She  still  dressed  in 
weeds,  with  her  usual  elegance  and  simplicity.  Her  reception 
of  Mr.  Clarendon  was  full  of  feeling,  while  her  fervent  expres- 
sions of  love  for  his  wife  betrayed  her  former  aft'ection  for  her 
beloved  pupil. 

Their  conversation  for  the  first  time,  in  their  long  acquaint- 
ance, was  free  from  restraint,  Mr.  Clarendon  delighted  Mrs, 
Linden  with  an  account  of  the  events  which  had  transpired 
since  they  had  met.  In  return,  Mrs.  Linden  disclosed  to  her 
auditor  a  part  of  her  interesting  history,  whereby  she  indenti- 
fied  herself  with  the  long  absent  wife  of  Roger  Wilton,  and 
the  mother  of  his  'deserted  son.  She  was  to  him,  indeed,  a 
heroine,  and  still  a  mystery. 

With  deep  interest  he  looked  upon  her  pale,  handsome  face, 
upon  the  features  so  full  of  benevolence  and  care-worn  beauty — 
and  asked  himself  what  was  the  history  that  had  caused  the 
world  to  wonder,  and  that  so  strongly  made  its  impress  upon 
the  early  life  of  Colonel  Livingston.  His  manner  evinced  the 
contrition  of  which  he  would  not  speak,  and  gratitude  for  her 
enduring  interest  in  his  wife.  With  tears  of  joy  his  kindness 
and  courtesy  were  accepted,  while  she  hastened  to  the  home  of 
her  beloved  Flora,  from  which  she  had  once  torn  her  in  sorrow, 
to  find  her  now  a  happy  wife  and  mother. 


Isora's    Child.  473 

Mrs.  Llndeu  had  arrived  from  Yirginia  with  her  son,  who 
nad  ah'eady  proceeded  to  the  home  of  Cora,  leaving  her  to 
seek  that  of  her  old  beloved  pupil. 

With  outstretched  arms,  the  once  sorrowinj^  friends  met  ! 
How  differently  had  they  parted  !  One,  in  the  wildness  of 
insanity,  and  the  other  to  undergo  the  greatest  trial  of  her 
sad  life.  And  now,  how  had  the  virtue  and  fortitude  of  each 
been  rewarded  ?  God  had  surely  been  in  all  their  paths.  On 
each  shone  the  beauty  that  arises  from  a  pure,  unerring  con- 
science, and  that  peace  which  ever  illumes  the  face  of  the  true 
Christian.  And  how  precious  to  each  was  that  little  one  ! 
Like  a  mother,  Mrs.  Linden  had  ever  been  in  heart  to  her 
beloved  Flora,  and  as  dear  as  one  of  her  own  blood,  seemed 
now  the  sweet  child  that  lay  in  her  bosom.  To  Flora  she,  for 
the  first  time,  told  the  history  of  her  sad  life,  reserving  only  to 
herself  the  name  of  her  early  lover.  To  this  confession,  Mr. 
Clarendon  was  also  admitted  ;  while,  evening  after  evening, 
she  entertained  the  young  mother  with  new  chapters  of  her 
life  ;  and  so  thrilling  and  interesting  the  narrations  continued, 
that  her  listeners  sorrowed  at  their  termination,  with  the  same 
feehng  that  one  regrets  the  end  of  a  fascinating  tale.  It  had 
been  such  a  history  as  no  novelist  could  relate  ;  it  required  the 
tongue  made  eloquent  by  the  feeling  which  gave  it  inspiration, 
and  derived  its  chief  charm  from  the  character  and  genius  of 
its  heroine. 

The  visit  of  Mrs.  Linden  to  Flora  had  been  to  her  very 
sweet  and  comforting.  She  felt  that  she  once  more  had  a 
mother,  one  too.  who  came  at  a  welcome  time. 

But  the  world  has  its  partings  as  well  as  its  greetings  ;  and 
that  of  Flora  and  Mrs.  Linden  was  one  of  hope  and  joy. 
Kot  a  shadow  had  passed  over  the  sunshine  of  their  happy 
meeting  ;  and  they  parted  from  each  other  with  the  prospect 
of  a  happy  reunion. 

Flora's  recovery  was  slow,  and  her  husband  became  wearied 
with  her  long  illness  ;  and  vexed  with  the  crying  of  an  infant 
that  seemed  to  have  no  reasonable  complaint.  He  ascribed 
all  its  fretfulness  to  its  early  smothering — consequently  vented 
untold  anathemas  upon  all  Quackenbosses.  The  child,  he  said, 
was  trotted  to  death.  And  so  between  the  women  and  cross 
baby,  the  husband  pretty  much  abandoned  the  nursery,  much 
to  the  relief  of  the  lady  nurse,  though  not  without  sadness  to 
Flora.     She  daily  saw  less  of  her  husband  ;  a  brief  visit,  con 


474  Isoka's    Child. 

stituting  the  length  of  his  interview.  The  bug-bear,  Benson, 
became  her  great  stay  and  comfort  ;  familiarized  to  her 
rough  ways,  she  began  to  appreciate  her  real  goodness  of 
heart. 

The  old  servant  looked  with  secret  anxiety  upon  Flora's  pale 
face,  and  declining  health,  and  began  to  grow  "  mad"  that  her 
master  did  not  see  it  as  plainly  as  she  did.  But  he  himself 
had  serious  fears  for  his  wife,  and  after  a  consultation  with 
Dr.  Yale,  concluded  to  send  her  into  the  country  for  the  sum- 
mer— Villacora  was  at  last  chosen  for  their  retreat.  The 
beautiful  spring  months  had  passed,  and  summer  was  near  upon 
them.  The  Colonel  and  Cora  were  delighted  with  the  proposed 
arrangement,  and  as  the  Dethwaites  had  promised  to  become 
a  part  of  their  household,  Mr.  Clarendon  hoped  that  with 
country  air,  and  good  company.  Flora  would  soon  be  restored. 
She  was  now  so  feeble  as  to  be  almost  passive  in  the  inclina- 
tion she  exhibited,  and  consented  to  her  husband's  wishes 
without  opposition. 

The  agreement  which  he  had  made  to  call  upon  Madame 
Delano,  for  the  exchange  of  their  letters,  slipped  from  his  mind 
in  the  excitement  of  the  period  ;  and  week  after  week  passed 
away,  without  its  fulfillment.  Finally,  fearing  the  result  of 
annoyance  from  her,  during  the  delicate  health  of  his  wife,  he 
resolved  to  arrange  matters  with  her  as  well  as  he  could. 

A  glance  at  the  home  of  Madame,  will  be  essential  to  follow 
the  subsequent  history  of  one  whose  acquaintance  with  her, 
has  involved  Mr.  Clarendon  in  embarrassment. 

Her  home  was  as  fanciful  as  its  mistress.  A  subdued  light 
lent  a  mysterious  charm  to  the  beauty  of  her  apartment — even 
the  lapdog  that  lay  at  her  feet  wore  a  jewelled  collar,  and 
re])Osed  on  a  cushion  of  crimson  damask. 

The  goddess  of  the  Epicurean  temple,  sat  richly  dressed 
opposite  an  open  window  shaded  with  flowers.  But  doll  as  she 
was,  no  smile  wreathed  her  bright  lips,  or  lighted  her  dark 
eyes.  She  had  daily  become  more  exasperated  with  the  ne- 
glect of  her  old  lover,  and  hidignant  with  his  failure  to  fulfill  his 
promise.  His  letters,  she  had  resolved  never  to  relinquish, 
witliout  the  accomplishment  of  her  designs.  She  had  arrayed 
herself  day  after  day,  with  the  hope  of  seeing  him,  resolving  to 
perfect  her  plans,  and  to  revenge  herself  speedily,  should  he 
fail  entirely  to  comply  with  her  terms  of  reconciliation. 

She  sat  alone,  but  hearing  a  step  in  the  corridor,  smoothed 


I  s  o  R  A  '  s    Child.  475 

her  brow,  and  assumed  her  blandest  smiles,  when  her  husband, 
wliom  she  termed  "  Le  Capilaine,'^  entered  her  saloon.  Had  a 
Greenhmd  bear  come  with  his  huge  paws  into  her  delicate 
presence,  she  could  scarcely  have  been  more  shocked,  for  she 
and  her  sailor  spouse  seldom  met.  He  allowed  his  fanciful 
wife  unlimited  control  of  his  purse,  but  disturbed  her  little  with 
his  company,  regardino^  her  as  one  would  a  bird  of  Paradise 
made  of  blown  glass,  for  ornament,  rather  than  answering  any 
useful  or  entertaining  purpose  ;  he  was  generally  submissive 
under  her  dominion,  but  occasionally  fits  of  rebellion  would 
seize  him,  when  her  enormous  bills  were  presented  him,  and  he 
seriously  estimated  the  compensation  received  for  supporting  a 
beauty  and  her  dog,  that  excluded  him  from  their  French  estab- 
lishment. 

He  had  just  paid  an  enormous  sum  for  a  collar  for  the 
poodle,  also  for  medical  attendance  on  the  lady's  pet  ;  and 
being  in  an  unusual  state  of  excitement,  determined  to  try  the 
efiect  of  expostulation  upon  Madame.  Captain  Delano  was  a 
portly  man,  with  a  weather-beaten  visage,  and  much  more  at 
home  on  a  ship's  deck  than  in  one  of  his  wife's  fairy  boudoirs, 
and  now  as  he  strode,  with  his  heavy  boots,  over  her  brilliant 
carpet,  and  seated  himself,  upon  a  sky-blue  ottoman,  Madame 
lifted  her  jewelled  arms,  and  gave  a  prolonged  shriek,  with  the 
cry,  ''  Mon  Dieu  !inon  fauienil  P^ 

"Look  here.  Jinny,"  said  the  Captain,  "I've  come  to  talk 
English.  Do  you  know  what  this  cabin  cost  ?  without  a  cheer 
or  a  settle  to  hold  up  a  common  sized  man."  The  blue  otto- 
man fearfully  creaked.  "  What  are  these  red  sails  for  ?  to  shut 
out  light  ?  and  these  smells — I'll  be  blowed  if  I  don't  like  bilge 
water  blotter;  and  this  bed  of  posies,"  continued  the  honest  tar, 
as  he  flung  himself  at  full  length,  and  rested  his  boots  on  the 
arm  of  a  rose  satin  couch,  on  which  flowers  were  embroidered — 
"  is  this  a  good  sort  of  hammock — or  is  it  made  for  dogs  and 
dandies  ? — and  this  smoke  out  of  a  Kangaroo's  head,  is  this  to 
light  a  land  lubber's  cigar  ?" 

"  Ah  !  -pour  ramour  de  Dieu  !  prenez  garde  de  ma  pastille  .'" 

"  Your  pastor,  is  it  ?  He  belongs  to  the  brimstone  order, 
I  guess.  Seems  to  me,  if  I  was  a  decent  woman,  I'd  dress  up 
this  squad  of  plaster  people — they  look  to  me  like  sea-islanders 
as  they  come  out  of  a  pond — those  shiny  black  fellows.  The 
white  ones  I'd  take  for  ghosts  in  a  dark  night.  Hain't  you  got" 
any  rigging  for  that  woman  ?" 


476  Is  oka's    Child. 

Madame  groaned,  and  fell  backward,  with  a  bottle  at  hei 
nojie. 

The  Captain  now  began  to  feel  more  at  home,  and 
approached  a  frail  article  of  upholstery,  made  of  pearl  and 
satin-wood  ;  an  ornament  rather  than  for  use.  He  pulled  aside 
the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  squared  himself  to  fall  upon  it. 
His  wife  gave  a  scream,  the  poodle  barked,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
down  the  Captain  sat — crash  went  the  framework,  sending  the 
sailor  over  backwards  against  a  costly  India  caspador,  which 
fell  against  a  beautiful  statue  of  Venus,  breaking  both  into  a 
hundred  fragments.  In  the  same  scene  of  destruction,  vases, 
flowers,  perfumery  and  incense  all  were  involved. 

The  Captain  was  soon  on  his  legs,  one  of  which  he  employed 
in  kicking  the  dog,  who  had  given  him  a  sharp  bite  on  the  ear, 
sending  the  pet  into  a  Flora  saucer,  upsetting  the  water  and 
flowers  into  the  lap  of  the  incensed  beauty. 

Affectation  now  deserted  her.  She  stormed,  screamed,  and 
threatened  suicide. 

The  Captain  coolly  looked  upon  the  scene  of  disaster,  while 
he  exclaimed  : 

"  By  St.  Joseph,  we  have  swept  the  decks^  but  saved  the 
crew  !" 

At  this  critical  moment  Mr.  Clarendon  entered  the  pre- 
sence of  the  ill-mated  couple.  Madame's  rage  now  turned  to 
faintness,  and  she  sank  in  an  apparent  swoon  on  the  lounge. 

While  the  lady  feigned  unconsciousness,  Mr.  Clarendon  took 
the  opportunity  of  securing  to  himself  a  small  package,  that 
fell  from  a  rosewood  escritoire  that  had  been  burst  open  by 
the  general  smash.  His  letters  he  feared  would  cost  him  much 
trouble  to  procure.  He  put  them  into  his  pocket  unseen,  and 
as  her  husband  had  vanished,  he  addressed  the  lady. 

"  Eugenie,"  said  he,  "  I  am  here  at  last,  and  trust  that  you 
are  well  enough  to  fulfill  your  promise." 

The  lady  opened  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  with  sweetness  of 
accent,  said  :  "  You  see  what  I  sufi'er  by  the  tyranny  of  my 
infamous  husband.  See  around  me  what  his  violent  passion 
has  done,  and  here  I  lie  a  victim  to  his  terrible  temper.  Oh, 
Clarendon,  it  is  indeed  happiness  to  see  you."  The  tapering 
fingers  of  the  lady  were  now  reached  out  for  the  clasp  of  her 
old  admirer,  but  they  fell  on  a  broken  vase. 

"  I  have  called  to-day  on  business,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 
coldy.     "  Are  you  ready  to  restore  my  letters  ?" 


I  s  o  E  a'  8    Child.  477 

"  Yes — wlicn  you  promise  me,  on  the  word  of  a  gentleman, 
that  you  will  introduce  me,  in  the  presence  of  your  wife,  to 
your  English  friends  ;  and  compel  your  haughty  lady  to 
change  her  supercilious  manners  towards  me," 

''  What  if  I  refuse,  Madame  Delano  ?" 

"  I  will  enclose,  by  a  sure  hand,  your  letters  to  me,  to  your 
wife  ;  and  more  than  this,  I  will  inform  these  English  people 
of  such  matters  of  your  family  history,  as  you  would  rather 
have  concealed.  This  is  not  all  ;  I  will  effect  your  wife's  ruin  ; 
I  will  injure  her  as  she  has  tried  to  crush  me.  I  can  do  it  ; 
and  you  may  now  choose  whether  to  gratify  my  ambition,  or 
to  humor  your  base-born  wife." 

"  Eugenie  Delano,  these  letters  I  prefer  to  show  to  my  wife 
myself  ;  and  yours,  if  you  choose,  you  can  show  your  husband. 
I  make  the  exchange  " 

"  Villain  !  you  have  broken  my  escritoire," 

"  No  ;  a  domestic  storm  has  done  that  ;  but  it  is  an  '  ill- 
wind  that  blows  no  good,'  Do  your  worst  in  attempting  to 
injure  my  wife," 

A  frown  of  intense  hatred  clouded  the  late  serene  brow  of 
the  admired  belle.  Her  eyes  flashed  fire  and  vengeance.  Mr. 
Clarendon  waited  for  no  words,  but  left  the  beautiful,  unprin- 
cipled woman,  whom  he  now  despised  as  heartily  as  he  had 
once  admired. 

Louis  Clarendon  returned  to  his  home  a  happier  man.  He 
resolved  to  acquaint  his  wife  with  his  morning's  visit  :  and  of 
all  the  circumstances  that  had  then  transpired.  But  he  found  her 
pale  and  dejected — and  feared  to  agitate  her  by  the  disclosure  ; 
little  dreaming  that  by  a  secret  hand — both  his  ride,  and  visit 
had  already  been  imparted  to  Flora. 

He  attributed  her  low  spirits  to  her  ill  health,  and  the 
fatigue  of  her  child  ;  and  feeling  so  fully  conscious  of  no 
mtended  wrong,  he  troubled  himself  little  about  the  appear- 
ances against  him.  He  returned  home,  in  unusual  spirits  ;  and 
was  grieved  and  wounded  that  his  proffered  kiss  was  so  coldly 
received  :  and  that  she  expressed  no  word  of  regret  at  the 
prospect  of  separation  from  him. 

Flora's  manner  seemed  to  him  unaccountably  proud,  and 
indifferent.  Illness  he  believed  the  cause  of  it  all  ;  and  he 
the  more  urgently  proposed  her  immediate  depai-ture  for  the 
country. 


478  Isoka's    Child 


"  I  am  ready,"  said  she,  coldly,  "  there  is  nothing  to  keep 
me  now." 

"  You  mean  that  your  wardrobe  is  prepared  my  love  ?" 
"  I  mean  that  I  am  in  every  way,  prepared." 
"  And,  without  one  reo:ret,  my  darling  ?" 
"  Yes,"  said  Flora,  choking  down  the  sobs  that  rose  like 
leaden  weights  in  her  throat. 

"  I  sliall  see  you  very  often,  Flora — and  shall  feel  very 
anxious  for  you,  and  little  Louis." 

Mr.  Clarendon  then  left  the  room.  The  eyes  of  the  wife 
were  now  veiled,  and  fell  on  the  carpet.  She  dared  not  look 
up,  lest  she  should  shriek  with  anguish.  She  turned  away  and 
made  her  last  preparations  to  go.  While  about  her  chamber, 
she  took  from  a  chair,  a  coat  which  her  husband  had  thrown 
aside.  As  she  lifted  it,  a  package  fell  from  it.  It  was  tied 
with  a  fanciful  ribbon,  and  superscribed  in  a  lady's  hand.  "  To 
Eugenie — from  Clarendon." 

With  a  shudder,  she  replaced  the  package  ;  and  while  the 
blood  rushed  to  her  heart,  fell  half  lifeless  upon  her  bed. 
At  this  moment,  her  husband  entered  the  chamber  ;  he  put 
away  the  garment  with  its  contents  ;  and  then  approached 
Flora. 

''My  love,"  said  he,  "it  pains  me  to  have  you  leave  me  so 
miserable  in  health  and  spirits." 

She  made  no  reply  ;  but  averted  her  face,  and  shuddered 
"  Where  is  the  child?" 
"With  his  nurse,"  replied  Flora. 
''  I  have  not  seen  you  caress  him  to-day." 
"When  will  the  carriage  come  ?"  said  she. 
"  xsot  until  after  dinner.     I  will  go  with  you.     The  servants 
will  have  everything  comfortable  at  the  cottage  ;  but.  Flora, 
all  will  be  desolate  here." 

How  those  words  wrung  her  heart  !  how  they  froze  her 
veins  w^ith  anguish  !  for  were  they  not  framed  by  deceit  ?  Sc 
she  then  deemed,  for  she  believed  that  her  husband  had 
been,  since  her  illness,  a  visitor  at  Madame  Delano's  ;  while 
torturing  her  with  his  late  neglect  ;  but  now,  she  was  going 
away  ;  and  in  the  joy  of  his  heart,  he  had  endeavored  to  cheat 
her  with  his  old  fondness  !  Bitter  was  the  suffering  she 
endured  under  the  conviction  of  his  duplicity  and  apparent 
treacliery. 


Isora's    Child.  479 

And  so  poor  Flora  went  away,  without  a  tear.  They  found 
Yiliacora  bloomino;  and  beantilul,  and  Cora  and  the  Colonel 
there  to  welcome  them. 

The  latter  was  much  shocked  to  see  the  pallor,  and  observe 
the  dejection  of  Flora — but,  Jike  her  husband,  believed  that  the 
change  would  restore  her  to  health.  After  vainly  endeavoring^ 
to  draw  one  smile,  or  one  kind  word  from  his  wife,  Mr.  Claren- 
don left  her,  almost  as  wretched  as  herself. 

When  he  next  sought  his  office  in  town,  he  found  ]\fr. 
Dethwaite  awaiting  him,  to  confer  upon  the  matter  which 
brought  bim  to  America.  But  since  he  last  saw  him,  a  change 
had  occurred  in  the  friendliness  of  his  manner,  and  he  was 
very  much  surprised  to  hear  him  express  his  determination  to 
decline  the  invitation  to  pass  the  summer  months  at  Villacora. 

Mr.  Clarendon  bowed  coldly,  but  asked  no  explanation  ; 
Mr.  Dethwaite  then  proceeded  to  business. 

"  The  search  I  have  to  make,"  said  the  latter,  "  is  for  the 
child  of  a  deceased  brother,  who  came  to  America  under 
peculiar  circumstances.  I  have  information  both  from  him 
and  from  one  who  saw  his  wife  after  she  arrived,  that  she  lived 
in  this  city,  with  her  child.  I  have  sought  the  place  to  which 
I  was  directed  by  my  brother,  but  all  the  intelligence  I  can 
gain,  is,  that  a  woman  answering  the  description  died  there 
years  ago  ;  and  that  the  child  was  carried  away.  I  will 
explain  the  circumstances,  that  led  to  such  singular  events  in 
the  life  of  an  Enu-lish  nobleman.  My  eldest  brother  was 
betrothed  from  a  child  to  his  cousin,  an  heiress  to  great  wealth. 
The  engagement,  after  he  grew  up,  became  repugnant  to  him  ; 
still,  he  dared  not  release  himself  from  his  bonds.  He  travel- 
led over  the  continent,  and  while  journeying  was  captivated  by 
an  Italian  girl,  of  great  beauty,  and  extraordinary  musical 
powers.  She  was  well  connected,  and  returned  his  attachment 
as  ardently,  I  saw  that  his  heart  was  enthralled,  and  being 
myself  interested  in  his  cousin,  I  encouraged  him  in  marrying 
the  foreigner  privately  ;  promising  myself  to  keep  his  secret 
from  reaching  England,  until  I  could  win  from  him  his 
affianced  bride.  She  was  then  very  young,  and  no  objection 
was  made  to  the  delay  proposed,  so  that  he  spent  much  of  his 
time  in  Italy  witliout  suspicion,  and  finally  came  to  America 
with  his  wife  a!id  child." 

"  But  while  here,  I  wrote  him,  that  the  time  had  come  when 
ne  must  declare   his  marriage  ;   and  proceed  to  England   to 


4:80  Isoea's    Child. 

make  the  declaration,  as  I  had  already  supplanted  him  in  the 
favor  of  his  neglected  cousin.  His  wife  had  never  been  aware 
of  his  previous  engagement,  and  had  suffered  mnchunhappiness 
from  the  privacy  of  her  marriage,  though  when  he  left  her,  she 
supposed  it  was  for  another  purpose.  But  my  poor  brother 
died  from  a  fever  taken  on  his  passage,  and  on  his  arrival,  we 
could  never  learn  the  situation  of  his  wife  or  child.  The 
difficulty  probably  arose  from  his  having  assumed  another 
name  ;  which  I  never  heard,  but  which  may  be  revealed  among 
his  letters  to  her,  could  I  find  them." 

"  This  is  certainly  a  singular  history,"  said  Mr.  Clarendon, 
while  sudden  light  broke  upon  him.  "  I  do  not  know  how  I 
can  assist  you,  unless  through  a  physician,  who  attended  a 
lady  in  her  last  illness,  who  died  under  mysterious  circum- 
stances. She  made  revelations  to  him,  I  understand,  respect- 
ing them.     I  will  send  for  him." 

After  further  conversation,  Dr.  Yale  was  summoned,  and 
informed  privately  by  Mr.  Clarendon,  that  he  had  sent  for  him 
to  make  the  confessions  of  Mrs.  Islington,  now  known  to  Mr. 
Dethwaite,  in  his  presence,  without  disclosing  his  wife's  identity 
with  the  daughter. 

"I  will  do  so,"  said  Doctor  Yale,  "if  such  is  your  wish. 
The  physician's  disclosure  was  as  follows  :  "  A  Mrs.  Islington, 
living  in  this  city,  ten  years  since,  stated  to  me,  on  her  death- 
bed, that  she  had  believed  herself  the  wife  of  Robert  Deth- 
waite, of  the  North  of  England  ;  and  that  a  doubt  of  her 
legal  marriage  never  had  harassed  her  mind,  until  she  received 
a  letter  from  Italy,  informing  her  that  she  had  been  deluded 
by  a  false  ceremony  ;  and  that  her  husband  was  now  on  his 
way  to  fulfill  a  contract  made  with  his  cousin,  an  English  heiress, 

"  She  told  me,  also,  that  the  news  had  been  the  cause  of  her 
d=^ath  ;  and  that  since  her  husband's  desertion  of  her,  she  had 
credited  the  rumor  ;  but  she  implored  me  never  to  reveal  her 
secret,  unless  under  circumstances  advantageous  to  her  daugh- 
ter, or  at  the  request  of  her  husband,  should  she  marry." 

"  This  lady  was,"  said  Mr.  Dethwaite,  with  agitation,  "  none 
other  than  the  lawful  wife  of  my  deceased  brother.  I  was 
present  at  her  niarriage,  and  have  now  the  certificate,  which  I 
found  among  my  brother's  papers.  She  died  then  ?  poor 
Isora  !  and  what  became  of  her  child  ?" 

Mr.  Clarendon's  eye  pleaded  discretion  from  the  Doctor, 
who  briefly  answered,  "  She  was  adojjted  by  a  stranger." 


Isora's    Child.  48i 

"  And  no  one  knows  her  fate,  I  suppose  ?" 
"  Why  do  you  wish  to  ascertain  it  ?" 

"  That  she  may  be  restored  to  her  kindred,  and  come  into 
possession  of  her  estates,"  said  Mr.  Dethwaite. 

"  I  will  assist  you,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  and 
perhaps  we  may  be  successful  in  the  search." 

The  Doctor  left  the  gentlemen,  when  Mr.  Dethwaite  said, 
haughtily,  to  Mr.  Clarendon,  "  Facts  have  been  revealed  to  me 
concerning  your  domestic  history,  which  have  shocked  and 
surprised  me  ;  and  although  they  have  not  prevented  me  froic 
seeking  your  counsel,  they  must  forbid  me  or  my  family  visiting 
you  or  your  wife.  I  could  not  have  believed  the  disclosure, 
privately  and  anonymously  made  me,  but  from  the  myster} 
which  seems  by  yourself  and  others  attached  to  Mrs.  Claren 
don's  birth  and  history.  I  have  invited  you  both  to  visit  us  it 
England.     I  must  now  recall  that  invitation." 

Mr.  Clarendon  turned  coldly,  "  We  will  then,  sir,  proceed 
to  business,  if  the  courtesies  of  life  are  at  an  end  between  us." 

"  Certainly,  sir  ;  your  private  life  cannot  aifect  such  mat- 
ters, but  I  must  express  my  indignation,  that  you  should  have 
thus  mistaken  me,  or  the  lady  under  my  charge." 

**  From  whom,  sir,  did  you  receive  your  direct  intelligence  ?" 
said  Mr.  Clarendon. 

**  Here  is  the  note  ;  information  confirmed,  by  your  own 
silence." 

"  Stop,  sir  ;  we  may  be  able  to  exhibit  some  testimony, 
which  will  throw  light  upon  the  character  of  your  informant. 
Here  is  a  note  in  the  same  handwriting." 

Mr.  Dethwaite  read  the  following  : — 

"Unless  you  repair  the  injury  your  wife  has  done  me,  I  will  ruin  her 
character,  and  blast  it  for  ever  with  Mr.  Dethwaite  and  his  family. 

''Eugenie  Delano." 

Mr.  Clarendon  continued  : — "  This  note  was  pencilled,  and 
handed  me  the  day  after  the  party  which  you  attended  at  my 
house.  I  acknowledge  myself,  once  to  have  been  an  admirer 
of  this  unprincipled  woman,  but  the  loveliness  and  virtue  of  my 
wife,  has  entirely  obscured  in  my  eyes  the  attractions  of  one 
so  worthless.  And  now,  as  you  have  obligingly  opened  this 
subject,  I  will  tell  you  something  of  Mrs.  Clarendon's  history  ; 
thou  Ml  I  do  not  feel  bound  to  disclose  all  the  peccadilloes  of 

21 


4:82  Iso     4's    Child. 

my  own.  She  was  an  orpl.an,  when  I  married  her  ;  her  birth 
was  unknown  to  me.  I  adopted,  educated,  and  took  her  to 
my  home,  then  a  child,  I  afterwards  loved  her,  but  made  her 
no  proposal  of  marriage  ;  she  subsequently  fled  from  me,  prefer- 
ring  poverty  and  an  obscure  home,  to  a  dangerous  intimacy 
with  a  lover,  too  proud  to  wed  her.  I  afterwards  conquered 
tliat  pride  ;  and  have  been  since  rewarded  in  my  choice  by  her 
devotion,  and  furthermore,  however  you  may  spurn  my  wife, 
I  wish  you  to  understand,  that  I  hold  the  honor,  as  much  con- 
ferred, as  received,  in  the  mutual  acquaintance  of  our  families." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dethwaite,  agitated 
and  overwhelmed.     "  Who  was  your  wife  ?     Her  name  ?" 

"  Flora  Islington." 

"  And  her  mother's  ?" 

"Isoro  Giocanti." 

"  My  brother's  child  !  God  bless  you  !  God  bless  you  !" 

Mr.  Dethwaite  clasped  the  hand  of  Mr.  Clarendon,  and 
almost  wrung  it  in  his  gratitude  and  joy. 

•'  And  you  saved  her  from  poverty  and  ruin,  educated  and 
married  her  ?" 

"  I  did,  but  I  was  actuated  by  selfish  motives  :  benevo- 
lence had  little  to  do  with  my  course.  When  a  little  child  I 
fancied  I  had  before  seen  her.  Was  she  ever  at  Rome  with  her 
father  ?" 

**  Yes,  and  there  he  had  her  picture  taken  ;  it  now  hangs  in 
my  gallery  at  home  " 

"  How  is  the  child  dressed  in  the  painting  ?" 

"  With  an  infant's  slip,  with  coral  clasps." 

"  The  same,"  murmured  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  "  Flora  was  right  ; 
she  remembered  me  truly  ;  the  child's  ornaments  were  unlike 
any  I  had  before  seen  ;  I  saw  her  on  my  tour  abroad  with  my 
mother." 

"  And  this  little  idol  of  my  brother— the  orphan  one,  is  now 
your  wife  ?  A  strange,  remarkable  Providence.  Come  with 
me:  my  sister  must  know  this.  How  often  she  has  spoken  of 
the  little  cross  worn  by  your  wife,  so  like  one  given  her  by  my 
brother.     Oh,  we  must  botli  go  instantly  to  the  dear  chihl" 

"  No,  stop,  my  dear  sir,  await  my  time  ;  acquaint  your  sister 
with  all  yon  have  learned,  and  bid  her  shun,  as  a  viper,  the  vile 
woman  who  has  traduced  her  noble,  virtuous  relative  ;  my 
wife's  health  is  now  so  delicate  I  fear  that  she  cannot  bear  tha 
escitement  of  the  news  awaiting  her." 


Isora's    CniLD.  483 

**  I  will  be  governed  by  you,  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  my  object  in 
»>oining  to  America  is  accomplished.     Adieu  !" 

The  gentlemen  parted,  to  meet  under  other  circumstances. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

There  is  a  kind  of  mournful  eloquence 

la  thy  dumb  grief,  that  shames  all  clamorous  sorrow. 

Nat  Lee. 

THE  following  day,  Flora  sat  in  Cora's  old  seat,  on  the 
piazza  of  the  cottage  at  Yillacora.  Her  baby  had  already 
improved,  and  was  fast  progressing  in  beauty  and  intelligence. 
Flora  often  caressed  it,  but  with  none  of  her  old  joyousness. 
On  her  lap  now  lies  a  letter  which  she  views  indifferently,  and 
turns  to  oue  of  her  husband's  on  which  superscription  she  fixes 
her  eyes,  with  a  cheek  of  ashy  paleness,  and  places  it  unopened 
in  her  escritoire.  Another  is  in  her  clasp  ;  it  was  written  in  the 
same  hand  that  acquainted  her  with  her  husband's  devotion 
to  Madame  Delano.  While  faintness  crept  over  her,  she 
read  the  intelligence,  that  Mr.  Dethwaite  and  his  sister  had 
been  informed  of  the  circumstances  of  her  birth,  and  of  her 
own  doubtful  reputation  previous  to  her  marriage  ;  and  that 
consequently  she  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  the  acquaintance 
between  herself  and  her  English  friends  dropped. 

S(,'ornfully  Flora  discarded  the  letter,  and  broke  open  an 
envelope  directed  in  the  handwriting  of  Miss  Dethwaite.  It 
simply  contained  a  cold  refusal  to  accept  the  invitation, 
extended  to  herself  and  brother,  to  visit  Yillacora.  Flora 
instantly  imagined  the  source  of  tiie  disaffection,  and  of  the 
malice  wdiich  had  caused  the  alienation  of  her  valued  friends  ; 
and  wished  that  she  had  no  better  proof  of  the  unfaithfulness  of 
her  husband  than  the  assertions  of  her  enemy.  But  had  she  not 
known  of  his  ride  with,  and  visit  to  Madame  Delano  ?  had  she 
not  seen  also  the  package  of  letters  which  lie  had  secreted  from 
her  ?  and  more,  had  she  not  witnessed  his  eagerness  to  hav<^ 
her  depart  from  him  ?  and  ah,  was  the  conviction  not  too  plain 
to  her  heart  that  he  wished  her  away,  that  he  might  more 
securely  enjoy  the  society  of  one  she  despised  ? 


4:84  Isoka's    Child. 

And  still  no  word  of  suspicion  had  passed  her  lips  ;  she 
determined  to  bury  in  her  heart  her  grief  ;  trusting  to  the  per- 
formance of  her  duties,  for  peace  of  mind.  Her  husband  came 
often  to  see  her,  but  returned  to  town  gloomy  and  dispirited. 
He  greatly  feared  the  approach  of  her  old  malady,  so  totally 
had  his  darling,  joyous  Flora  changed.  He  again  placed  her 
under  the  charge  of  Doctor  Vale,  and  with  anguish  of  mind 
witnessed  her  increasing  depression. 

Little  Louis,  meanwhile,  grew  daily  more  lovely  and  inte- 
resting. He  soon  became  an  idol  with  his  father,  while  Flora 
seemed  to  concentrate  in  her  worship  of  him  all  that  she  had 
once  bestowed  upon  her  husband.  In  her  darling's  existence, 
she  seemed  to  live — to  breathe.  She  asked  no  question 
respecting  their  English  friends,  and  as  her  husband  knew 
nothing  of  the  letter  which  she  had  received  concerning  their 
desertion  of  her,  he  presumed  her  as  indifferent  to  them  as  to 
others,  and  was  afraid  in  her  present  state  of  mind,  to  impart 
to  her  her  relationship  to  them  ;  while  she  thought,  if  they 
could  so  readily  be  made  to  think  ill  of  her,  that  she  would  not 
refute  the  slander.  Doctor  Yale  enjoined  her  to  observe  per- 
fect quiet,  and  was  puzzled  much  to  account  for  her  state  of 
mind. 

The  summer  months  were  now  fairly  upon  them.  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon had  enjoyed  a  tranquil  day  at  Yillacora.  Flora  had 
seemed  less  to  avoid  him,  and  had  played  with  little  Louis, 
while  he  sat  upon  his  knee.  He  had  dwelt  upon  her  pale  sweet 
face  with  more  than  his  usual  fondness  ;  and,  for  the  first  time 
for  many  weeks,  she  had  permitted  him  to  smooth  caressingly 
her  hair.  Still  her  eyes  were  ever  averted  from  his  ;  her  hand 
even  shrunk  from  his  touch,  while  all  her  love  seemed  wrapped 
in  the  little  being  on  which  her  thoughts  were  fixed.  She  had 
taught  the  child  to  lie  across  her  shoulder,  with  its  little  dim- 
pled arms  around  her  neck,  while  its  short  flossy  curls  mingled 
with  hers.  The  infant  seemed  to  appreciate  her  almost  mute 
caresses  ;  for  she  seldom  said  anything  more  than  "  my  darling  I 
my  Louis  1"  but  it  was  the  tune,  the  passion  of  the  action, 
that  seemed  to  knit  him  to  her,  and  to  express  the  fervor  of 
her  love.  The  little  one  would  crow  and  laugh,  and  spring 
into  the  arms  of  his  father  ;  but  his  little  head  seemed  never 
weary  of  its  resting-place,  on  the  bosom  of  his  sad,  fond 
mother. 

As  evening  approached,  Mr,  Clarendon  stole  away  with  the 


Isora's    Child.  485 

child,  that  he  might  give  vent  to  the  fullness  of  his  love  for 
his  darling.  He  gazed  into  the  face  of  his  beautiful  boy, 
almost  fearfully  marking  the  expression  of  his  wife's  spirit  like 
eyes,  in  her  child.  Then  he  would  tremble,  lest  he  was  too 
sweet  for  earth,  and  that  his  only  joy  would  be  taken  from  hiui. 
He  had  felt  of  late  that  he  had  wholly  lost  his  Flora,  and  often, 
at  midnight,  had  stolen  with  stealthy  steps  to  her  room,  that  he 
might  look  at  her  asleep,  try  to  recall  her,  and  imagine  her  all 
again  his  own.  He  often  spent  hours  looking  upon  her  pale 
features,  now  colorless  as  her  pillow  ;  and  sometimes,  when  her 
sleep  was  profound,  he  would  press  his  lips  to  her  brow,  and 
leave  her  to  calm  repose.  These  were  now  the  sweetest  moments 
that  he  passed  away  from  his  boy.  But  if  she  stirred — if 
her  eyes  opened — he  vanished  from  the  presence  of  one,  who 
seemed  no  longer  to  love  him. 

Thus,  cheerlessly,  days  passed  with  the  husband  and  wife  ; 
their  sorrow  all  created  by  the  arts  of  a  designing  woman, 
and  indiscretion  on  the  part  of  one  who  proved  not  regardless 
of  appearances,  though  he  shunned  actual  wrong.  Mr.  Cla- 
rendon often  found  Flora  with  her  Bible  ;  and  in  prayer,  when 
he  had  secretly  watched  her,  a  petition  for  him  would  gush 
forth  tenderly  from  the  lips  that  shunned  his  holiest  kiss.  Mr. 
Clarendon  returned  late  one  evening  from  New  York,  and,  as 
was  his  custom,  went  in  pursuit  of  his  wife  and  boy. 

The  child  seemed  restless  and  unwell.  He  attempj;ed  to 
take  it  from  Flora,  but  she  only  hugged  it  the  closer  ;  and  with 
eyes  that  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets,  occasionally  gazed 
in  his  face  with  apprehension.  Mr.  Clarendon  was  alarmed, 
and  sent  for  Doctor  Yale.  The  child  grew  languid,  and 
breathed  heavily,  and  at  intervals  cried  sharply.  Tiie  face  of 
Flora  betrayed  her  agony.  She  rushed  with  him  to  the  corner 
of  the  apartment,  and  seemed  to  think  that  if  alone  with  her 
idol,  she  could  restore  him.  She  poured  into  her  lap  all  her 
varieties  of  jewels  ;  diamonds,  rubies,  and  sapphires  flashed  on 
the  eyes  of  the  child.  His  little  hand  one  moment  lay  upon 
the  glittering  gems,  then  turned  from  them  ;  he  h  d  his  face  upon 
his  mother's  neck,  wdiile  his  tiny  fingers  wreathed  in  and  out 
of  her  hair.  Flora  became  apparently  frantic,  but  allowed  no 
one  to  touch  the  child.  Mr.  Clarendon  found  the  necessity  of 
thwarting  her,  for  the  child's  welfare ;  and,  with  gentle  force, 
took  little  Louis  from  her  embrace.  For  the  first  time,  she 
looked  at  her  husband  ;  and  such  a  glance  1     Her  eyes  spoke 


486  Isora's    Child. 

volumes  ;  and  in  their  expression  he  read  the  utter  wretched* 
ness  of  her  heart.  There  was  no  insanity  there.  "  Flora," 
said  he,  "you  most  give  up  the  child,  or  he  will  din," 

"  Then,  oh  !  ray  God,  take  me  too  !"  burst  from  the  lips  of 
the  distressed  mother,  as  she  released  her  boy.  Benson  then 
took  the  child,  and  forced  some  drops  between  his  teeth.'  His 
breathing  grew  worse.  The  truth  flashed  upon  those  around 
him.  Little  Louis  was  in  the  agouies  of  croup.  The  strugo:les 
of  rhe  child  were  fearful.  His  breath  became  shorter  and  more 
hoarse.  Flora  seized  his  little  thrown  up  hands,  while  she 
tried  to  catch  the  gleam  of  his  rolled  up  eyes.  He  did  not 
seem  to  know  her.  Medical  aid  was  procured  ;  powerful  reme- 
dies were  used,  but  all  in  vain  ;  the  only  joyful  thing  that 
the  house  had  contained,  was  a  little  beautiful  corpse  that 
night  ! 

With  agonized  gaze,  both  father  and  mother  looked  upon 
the  clay  of  their  darling  child.  Mr.  Clarendon  buried  his 
head  on  its  pillow,  and  wept  like  one  bereft  of  hope  ;  but  no 
tears  fell  from  the  sad  mother's  eyes. 

The  wretchedness  of  abject  despair  was  written  on  eye, 
lip,  and  brow,  while,  with  clasped  hands,  she  hung  over  the 
lifeless  form  of  her  child.  Doctor  Yale  endeavored  to  remove 
her  from  the  bed,  fearing  the  result  of  such  bitter  anguish  : 
her  husband  also  spoke  to  her  tenderly,  and  said  :  "  Come  with 
me.  Flora,  and  I  will  try  to  soothe  you."  But  she  stirred  not 
so  much  as  an  eye-lash.  Benson  watched  the  scene  from  a 
corner  of  the  room  ;  she  said  not  a  word,  but  came  forward, 
and  took  up  Flora  as  she  would  a  child,  and  placed  her  upon 
her  bed  ;  and  after  applying  water  to  her  temples,  darkened 
her  room,  and  left  her  alone.  But  it  was  not  long  before 
hushed  footste])S  were  about  her  bed,  while  in  the  opposite 
room  still  sat  the  bereaved  father,  by  the  couch  of  his  dead 
boy. 

Soon,  other  voices  were  heard  in  that  afiQIcted  chamber  ; 
and  the  soft,  sad  e3^es  of  Cora  Livingston  rested  upon  the 
wretched  motiier,  and  then  upon  the  little  pale  Louis.  And 
as  morning  dawned,  Mr.  Dethwaite  and  his  sister  sat  beside 
the  afflicted  parents,  and,  in  their  sympathy,  attempted  conso- 
lation. Bat  cold  and  stony  was  the  ga2e  of  Flora,  upon  each 
one  that  approached  her  bedside,  excepting  Cora  Livingston. 
To  her  she  extended  her  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  opposite 
room.     She  would  allow  Benson  also  to  arrange  her  pillow, 


Isoka's    Child.  487 

and  once  put  both  her  Imnds  in  her  rough  pahn,  and  with  a 
pleading  look,  said.  "  Let  me  go  to  my  baby — put  hira  on  my 
shoulder,  he  loves  to  lie  there.  Don't  leave  him  alone,  he  is 
mine,  not  his."  Flora  shuddered  as  she  spoke,  and  drew  the 
sheet  over  her  face,  as  if  she  would  shut  out  the  image  of  her 
husband.  Dr.  Vale  then  came  beside  her  bed,  and  told  her  if 
she  would  be  quiet,  that  to-morrow  she  should  look  again  upon 
her  boy.  "  But  he  must  be  dressed,"  she  murmured;  "  no  one 
must  do  it  but  his  mother — he  won't  cry  now  !" 

"  Go  to  sleep  if  you  can,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  choked 
voice  ;  "  his  father  will  take  care  of  him." 

Suddenly  Flora  rose  from  her  pillow,  she  resisted  all  opposi- 
tion, and  came  to  the  side  of  her  dead  child.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  his  now  cold  forehead,  and  lifted  the  curls,  one  by  one 
from  his  brow. 

"  Shall  we  sever  some  of  them  ?"  whispered  Miss  Dethwaite 
to  Mr.  Clarendon. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  sad  father ;  and  approached  nearer  the 
couch. 

Flora  saw  the  movement.  She  threw  herself  beside  her 
baby  ;  and  while  she  covered  the  little  form  in  her  shawl,  she 
cried  : 

**  Leave  him.  His  curls  belong  to  the  angels,  he  is  one  of 
them  now.  Let  him  go  as  God  took  him — he  is  ready  with 
his  white  rol)e.     He  was  all  I  had,  but" 

Flora  now  sunk  with  the  effort  she  made  on  the  child's  bed, 
and  was  carried  away  senseless.  Mr.  Clarendon  then  severed 
a  few  of  the  infant  locks  from  the  head  of  little  Louis,  and 
crossed  on  his  breast,  the  little  dimpled  hands,  that  had  so 
often  wound  about  his  mother's  neck.  He  then  called  for  a 
white  ribbon.  Benson  brought  one  that  Flora  had  worn  in 
her  hair  at  her  marriage.  With  this  he  tied  the  little  arms 
together,  and  affer  adjusting  his  head,  he  could  do  no 
more  ;  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  tried  to  give  him 
up. 

When  Flora  came  again,  the  dead  baby  was  laid  in  its 
coffin.  As  yet  she  had  shed  no  tear.  Her  hands  were  full  of 
white  rose-buds  ;  and  her  face  pale  as  the  flowers.  With  wild 
dishev(41ed  hair,  eyes'  sunken  with  agony,  and  pale  lips  apart, 
she  put  down  her  ear,  as  if  to  hear  him  breathe.  Suddenly 
she  saw  the  ribbon  that  tied  the  hands  of  her  little  Loui^;. 
She  knew  it,  and  in  a  low  tone  of  anguish,  said  : 


4:88  Isoea's    Child. 

"  Take  it,  oh  take  it  away  ;  bind  him  not  with  the  tie  of  my 
bridal  wreath  !  There  is  no  bliss  here  !  Was  h  woven  for 
death  ?     Yes — death — death  was  in  the  garland  I" 

"  To  me,"  whispered  the  husband,  "  it  told  of  love  and  happi- 
ness, and  so  I  gave  it  to  our  child." 

His  words  were  unheeded,  while  Flora  murmured  : 

"  They  would  not  let  me  dress  you,  baby  ! — no,  not  for  the 
last  time." 

Flora  was  now  permitted  to  stay  beside  the  coffin.  She 
was  still  almost  motionless,  and  uttered  scarce  a  moan.  But 
the  Doctor  finally  grew  alarmed  with  her  quiet  despair,  and 
called  her  husband  aside. 

"  She  must  be  made  to  weep,". he  said. 

"  How  can  it  be  efiected  ?"  questioned  the  distresse<A 
husband. 

"  Close  the  lid  of  the  coffin,"  he  whispered. 

It  was  done.  A  wild  shriek  burst  from  the  lips  of  Flora, 
while  from  her  eyes  came  a  gush  of  burning  tears  ;  sobs,  fear- 
ful and  prolonged,  agitated  her  breast,  when  she  was  born«* 
away  from  her  dead  idol  in  convulsive  but  tearful  grief. 

To  the  lookers  on,  the  coldness  between  Flora  and  her 
husband  was  a  a  dark  mystery,  for  all  saw  that  not  a  word 
passed  between  them  ;  and  that  separately  they  spent  their 
hours  of  grief. 

"  She  is  like  her  mother,"  murmured  Doctor  Yale,  in  the 
ear  of  Mr.  Dethwaite.  "  Some  anguish  greater  than  the 
death  of  her  child,  is  preying  upon  her  mind  ;  we  must  discover 
it,  or  it  will  produce  insanity." 

"  I  will  go  to  her  and  talk  to  her  of  her  mother." 

Mr.  Detliwaite  and  the  Doctor  proceeded  to  the  ihamber  of 
Flora.  She  turned  aside  her  head  from  the  fo^'mer,  and  placed 
her  hand  in  that  of  the  Doctor. 

"  Flora,"  said  the  latter,  "  I  was  at  the  death-bed  of  your 
mother  ;  and  this  gentleman  with  me  was  present  at  her 
marriage." 

With  streamina:  eyes  Flora  cast  an  eager,  searching  look 
upon  Mr.  Dethwaite. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  sorrowing  one,"  said  Mr.  Dethwaite,  taking 
the  hand  of  Flora,  "  in  me  you  see  the  brother  of  your  father, 
and  the  friend  of  your  respected  motlier.  I  saw  your  parents 
wedded  ;  and  in  you,  dear  Flora,  I  have  found  at  last,  their 
child.     Poor,  loved  Isora  !     I  would  see  her  grave. 


Isoka's    Child.  489 

A  look  of  gratitude  lighted  for  a  moment  the  features  of 
Flora,  then  giving  her  hand  to  her  uncle,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Do  I  listen  to  the  truth  ?  And  wretched  as  I  am,  do  I 
indeed  see  my  father's  brother,  one  who  can  love  Isora's 
child  ?" 

"  Be  still  rich  in  happiness  ;  be  not  ungrateful,  my  dear 
afflicted  one,  for  the  mercies  still  left  you  ;  think  of  your  noble, 
devoted  husband  " 

"  Devoted  I     Ah,  devoted  to  another  !" 

"  Believe  it  not,  my  poor  child  ;  you  have  an  enemy  whose 
arts  have  nearly  wrecked  your  happiness." 

"And  does  he  not  love  her — visit  her — write  to  her  !  Oh, 
if  you  are  my  father's  brother,  take  me,  oh  take  me  with  you, 
from  him." 

"  Love  this  woman  ?  He  has  told  me  of  her  worthlessness; 
of  his  utter  contempt  for  Madame  Delano." 

"Why  then  did  he  see  her  ?     Why — the  rest  ?" 

"  To  annihilate  the  past,  when  he  was  drawn  away  by  her 
snares  ;  to  regain  from  her  the  letters  once  written  her,  before 
he  was  married,  Flora." 

"  Why  has  he  not  told  me  this  ?" 

"  To  save  you  pain.  He  has  confessed  all  to  me,  for  I  too 
was  deceived." 

"  And  I  have  suffered  from  false  appearances  !"  Flora 
looked  at  her  child's  empty  cradle,  and  lifting  up  her  arms 
whispered  :  "  Then  he  is  left  to  me.  Oh,  tell  my  husband  his 
poor  Flora  is  alone." 

A  moment  passed,  and  Flora  lay  sobbing  in  the  arms  of  her 
husband.     Again  she  is  his  loving,  but  tearful,  sorrowing  wife. 

Together  they  now  approach  the  little  coffin — but  a  strong 
arm  supports  the  bereaved  mother  ;  and  a  faithful,  devoted 
heart  is  ready,  full  of  sympathy,  to  soothe^  her  grief.  The  blow 
has  come  alike  suddenly  to  both  ;  but  new  joy  has  burst  even 
upon  this  night  of  sorrow  ;  and  when  they  laid  "  their  darling 
down  to  rest,"  it  was  with  hopeful  resignation  that  the  God 
who  had  so  afflicted  them,  had  done  all  things  well.  For 
the  first  time  the  proud  man  knelt  to  his  God,  in  prayer,  and 
rose  in  submission  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 

Little  Louis  was  laid  by  the  side  of  Isora  Dethwaite,  and 
while  around  his  fresh  grave  the  survivors  mourned,  not  one 
was  there,  save  the  aunt  of  Flora,  who  had  not  looked  upon 
the  face  of  her,  who  had  so  earlv  laid  down  her  sorrowing  head 

21* 


490  Isoka's    Child. 

— the  victim  of  circumstances,  from  such  as  too  many  in  this 
cold  world  suflfer^ — leaving  in  her  melancholy  death,  a  warning 
by  which  all  should  profit — to  make  clear  the  acts  of  a  virtuous 
life — that  on  them  no  dark  mystery  should  rest,  bringing 
wretchedness,  instead  of  joy,  upon  the  hearts  who  love  and 
grieve. 

Flora  soon  returned  in  her  sable  weeds,  to  her  bridal  home. 
Sadly,  and  tearfully,  she  looked  around  her  nursery  ;  but  not 
without  consolation.  The  death  of  her  child  brought  salutary 
good  to  the  heart  of  her  husband.  It  taught  him  the  uncer- 
tainty of  all  earthly  joys  ;  and  while  he  appreciated  with  a 
grateful  heart,  the  purity  and  truth  of  her  who  was  to  him 
"  more  precious  than  rubies,"  he  still  looked  beyond  this  world, 
and  all  its  transitory  joys,  to  the  Heaven  where  his  little  Louis 
had  early  fled — to  the  bosom  of  his  Saviour. 

Madame  Delano  received  the  punishment  she  merited.  The 
birth  and  rank  of  Flora  Clarendon  were  soon  widely  circulated  ; 
and  though  she  continued  in  society  the  same  unassuming 
woman,  she  ever  passed  coldly  by  the  unprincipled  and  fri- 
volous ;  and  so  wide  was  the  influence  she  exerted,  that  the 
seductive  but  beautiful  woman,  in  whose  smiles  lurked  poison 
and  death,  never  again  held  her  wonted  sway  in  the  circles 
where  she  had  shone  conspicuous. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

I  cannot  think  of  sorrow  now;  and  doubt 
If  e'er  I  felt  it — 'tis  so  dazzled  froija 
My  memory,  by  this  oblivious  transport. 

Byron. 

AT  the  time  Mrs.  Linden  visited  Flora  Clarendon,  Rufus 
Wilton  sought  the  home  of  Cora.  She  had  expected  him; 
and  with  all  her  winning  ways,  had  endeavored  to  reconcile  her 
father  to  an  event  which,  while  it  lay  in  the  perspective 
alarmed  him  little. 

Surrounded  as  was  his  daughter,  by  luxury  and  receiving 
as  her  daily  homage,  the  adulation  of  many  brilliant  suitors, 


Isora's    Child.  491 

he  little  feared  that  his  Cora  could  choose  such  an  alternative 
as  a  life  in  a  log  hut  in  Yirginia,  with  a  poor  physician. 

He  believed  that  the  crisis  of  her  girlhood's  fever  had  passed  ; 
and  that  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  his  daughter  would  be  gov- 
erned by  judgment,  as  well  as  passion. 

But  suddenly — alarmingly,  the  news  of  her  old  lover's  arrival 
was  imparted  to  him,  and  from  Cora's  own  lips,  he  heard  that 
he  came  as  her  accepted  suitor.  With  consciousness  of  great 
wrong  inflicted  somewhere,  and  by  some  one,  he  retreated 
haughtily,  and  left  Cora  to  receive  her  long  absent  Wilton. 

No  change  had  occurred  in  Cora,  since  they  parted,  save  the 
ripening  of  her  girlhood's  charms  ;  a  sweeter  dignity  had  per- 
haps replaced  the  childish  naivete  of  her  manner  ;  but  not  a 
shadow  had  passed  over  her  spring-time  loveliness.  She  now 
sat  in  his  old  home,  with  a  rapidly  beating  heart,  awaiting  his 
coming. 

How  well  she  remembered  their  parting  ! — how  plainly 
painted  on  her  vision,  was  his  haggard,  sorrowing  face,  as  they 
met  in  the  obscure  village,  where  she  had  sought  him  in  the 
hour  of  sickness  and  gloom  !  and  as  she  now  laid  down  the 
page,  which  she  could  not  read,  to  look  forth  from  the  old 
window  of  her  home,  she  wondered  if  he  had  since  changed. 
Her  silken  ringlets  fell,  as  of  old,  softly  about  a  cheek  of  lily- 
purity — leaving  the  red  of  her  lips  the  brighter  for  the  con- 
trast. 

But  suddenly,  a  flush  mantled  her  face — the  blue  of  her  eye 
deepened,  and  the  fluttering  of  her  bosom's  drapery  showed  the 
agitation  within. 

Rufus  Wilton  had  arrived — Cora  opened  the  door  to  meet 
him — the  wild  wood,  with  its  violet  perfume,  was  on  her 
memory  ;  the  lovers  knew  no  change — they  remembered  no 
parting — no  sorrow — in  the  present,  the  joy  of  years  was  con- 
centrated ! 

But  in  subsequent  moments,  Cora  saw  that  from  the  face  ot 
her  lover  richer  gleams  of  intellect  flashed  ;  and  that  the  fire 
of  an  eye,  ever  brilliant  and  expressive,  had  softened  into  a 
deeper,  purer  light.  She  saw  now  that  the  youthful  color  that 
once  mounted  to  his  cheek  was  gone,  but  that  over  his  face 
the  illumination  of  mind,  and  a  noble  heart,  was  more  than 
ever  visible.  She  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  quiet  earn- 
estness of  his  tones,  that  betrayed  less  of  the  impulse  and  fervor 
of  youth,  and  more  of  the  maturity  of  riper  manhood.      He 


>- 


492  Isora's    Child. 

also  saw  that  tlie  cliildisli  grace  of  the  girl  of  seventeen  sum- 
mers had  now  softened  into  the  maturity  of  womanhood, 
bestowing  that  which  gave  character  to  loveliness.  The  years 
that  had  separated  them,  had  but  strengthened  their  attach- 
ment. He  saw  now  with  the  expansion  of  a  form,  more  than 
ever  bewitching,  a  mind  teeming  with  richer  cultivation — and 
in  the  clear  softness  of  an  eye  that  fell  beneath  his  ardent 
gaze,  a  soul  untainted  by  the  worship  of  an  admiring  world. 

The  now  hopeful  suitor  had  brought  with  him  from  Virginia, 
proofs  of  his  high  position,  and  of  that  independence  which  he 
had  won  by  honest  toil.  These  he  presented  to  Colonel  Living- 
ston with  a  bold  heart,  and  unshrinking  resolution,  and  again 
asked  him  for  his  daughter.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  prospe- 
rity had  inflated  the  pride  of  the  father's  heart,  and  tiiat  more 
ambition  swelled  at  its  core  than  he  could  gratify.  Still,  with 
manly  independence  he  stood  before  the  father  for  the  last 
time,  to  urge  his  suit. 

Together  they  had  resolved  to  be  the  arbiters  of  their  own 
destinies.  Arrived  at  mature  years,  with  the  experience  and 
sorrow  of  twice  their  life's  period,  Cora  and  Wilton  had 
pledged  their  hearts,  and,  with  the  will  of  God,  had  determined 
T^hat  no  other  power  should  separate  them  through  life. 
■  "  What  have  you  to  offer  my  daughter  ?"  said  Colonel 
Livingston,  stiffly. 

"  What  I  left  her,  sir,  to  earn — a  reputation  and  independence, 
such  as  will  enable  me  to  support  her  honorably,  and  without 
discredit  to  her  friends.  I  have  brought  you  letters  as  to  a 
stranger  ;  they  are  from  persons  of  distinction,  who  claim  me 
as  among  the  first  in  their  estimation.  I  have  no  boast  to 
make  myself — come  to  Virginia,  and  I  will  there  better  prove 
my  position." 

"  But  can  you  maintain  her  in  style  ?" 

"  1  will  endeavor  to  make  her  ha])py." 

"  Do  you  still  talk  of  romance  and  a  cottage  !  Begone  with 
your  nonsense,  and  not  insult  my  daunhter  with  such  off'ers. 
No,  thank  God,  she  has  a  home  worthy  of  her  birth  and 
name." 

The  Colonel  elevated  his  gouty  foot,  and  took  some  dyspep- 
tic pills. 

"  Good  m.Grning,  Colonel.  I  suppose  I  shall  find  Cora  or>  the 
avenue  ;  I  will  seek  her  and  return  to  you." 

The  proposal  was  effected,  and,  after  an  hour's  earnes^  ;^on- 


Isoka's    Child.  493 

versation,  Wilton  repaired  with  his  companion  to  tlie  presence 
of  the  afflicted  Colonel. 

"  Well,  ray  daughter,"  said  the  latter,  "  you  are  just  in  time. 
I  wish  you  would  decline  for  me  this  invitation  to  Woodside. 
Can't  go,  possibly.  Did  you  ever  have  the  gout,  Wilton  ?  look 
out  for  it,  as  you  would  for  the  approach  of  an  enemy,  armed 
at  all  points,  ^^o  danger,  I  suppose,  living  on  corn-dodgers  and 
bacon — eh  ?" 

"  I  have  no  time  to  parry  your  thrusts,  Colonel,  being  now 
engaged  in  an  enterprise  that  I  trust  will  improve  my  condition, 
poor  as  I  may  be." 

A  faint  smile  passed  over  Cora's  face,  as  she  said,  "  I  am 
sure  papa  will  not  stand  in  the  way  of  his  own  comfort,  which 
has  been  always  affected  by  his  child's  happiness."  She  laid 
her  hand  in  her  father's  as  she  spoke.  Her  look  was  one  of 
inquiring  earnestness.  Colonel  Livingston  avoided  her  eye, 
while  he  said  : 

"The  gout  is  more  than  a  saint  can  endure,  but  one  cannot 
live  like  a  gentleman,  and  avoid  it." 

"  Can  you  not  convince  your  father,  Cora,  that  our  united 
efforts  might  effect  his  cure.  I  have  brought  your  daughter 
to  you.  Colonel,  to  continue  the  cause  in  which  I  have  failed — 
let  her  not  prove  unavailing." 

With  these  words  Wilton  vanished,  when  Cora  said, 

"  I  need  but  ask  you  not  to  again  separate  us  ;  papa  you 
cannot  refu-se  longer  " 

"  Cora,  remember  that  there  is  not  much  romance  after 
matrimony." 

"  But  it  is  not  romance  that  influences  either  of  us  ;  and 
your  child  seeks  all  the  happiness  she  craves  on  earth,  when 
she  follows  the  fortunes  of  her  chosen  husband.  When  I  was 
younger  I  listened  to  your  objections,  but  now  my  judgment 
seconds  my  heart's  wishes.  You  must,  dear  papa,  yield  this 
contested  point — or" 

"What,  Cora?" 

"  Cause  me  enduring  sorrow." 

"  Sorrowful  in  this  long-coveted  home,  with  your  proud 
fortune  !" 

"  Oh,  papa,  what  but  pride  stands  in  the  way  of  oui  l/appi* 
ness  ?" 

"  How  can  you  bear  the  change?" 

"  I  cau  live  as  Rufus  and  his  mother  have  lived." 


494:  Isora's    Child. 

"  His  mother  1  Rosa  Xeville  ?  is  slie  among  the  living  ? 
call  Wilton." 

The  summons  was  heard  in  an  adjoining  apartment,  and 
obeyed.  The  Colonel  was  excited  and  nervous,  while  he 
impetuously  asked  "If  the  tale  of  his  mother's  existence  was 
true." 

The  conversation  that  followed,  was  full  of  impatient  queries, 
and  exciting  replies  to  the  Colonel.  The  current  of  his  thoughts 
were  suddenly  changed  ;  his  manner  towards  Wilton  became 
softened,  and  acquiescent  ;  and  Cora  and  her  lover  saw  with 
mutual  satisfaction  that  his  manner  implied  all  that  his  words 
failed  to  express.  He  left  the  presence  of  both  as  evening 
advanced  ;  and  regardless  of  his  indisposition,  paced  the  floor 
of  the  outer  room,  with  his  head  bent  and  his  mind  absorbed  in 
deep  meditation.  But  once  he  looked  within.  He  saw  the 
devotion  of  the  lovers,  and  met  the  eye  of  Wilton,  who  rose, 
and  said  : 

"  Shall  we  take  your  silence  for  consent  ?" 

*'Xo,  you  have  it  in  words — Cora,  my  foolish  child,  do  you 
hear  me  ?" 

Her  face  was  raised  to  her  father's.  It  was  full  of  serene 
happiness. 

The  Colonel  was  satisfied,  and  again  retired.  His  thoughts 
were  with  Rosa  Wilton  as  he  last  saw  her,  when  by  the  light 
of  evening,  he  instigated  her  to  leave  her  home — to  abandon 
her  husband.  How  little  he  deemed  then,  that  long  years  of 
separation  would  divide  them  !  He  glanced  at  the  opposite 
mirror — he  was  good-looking  still.  But  would  she  recognize 
him  young  and  handsome  as  he  then  was  !  and  again  and 
again,  arose  the  query,  Would  she  marry  him  now  ?  Slowly 
but  surely  came  the  response  in  the  affirmative  ;  for  had  he  not 
riches  and  influential  position.  Sudden  youth  seemed  revived 
as  he  pondered  and  ruminated — and  when  he  laid  down  to 
sleep,  his  brain  was  as  full  of  hopeful  visions  as  the  hearts  of 
those  whose  prospects  he  would  so  recently  have  blasted. 

Colonel  Livingston  determined  to  offer  his  hand  to  "  Rosa 
Neville,"  for  such  she  ever  lingered  in  his  imagination. 

Accordingly  the  following  day  he  sought  the  beloved  of  his 
youth,  having  nevertheless  misgivings  as  to  his  personal  appear- 
ance. Still  vanity  and  his  mirror  flattered  him  with  the  belief 
that  he  yet  lived  in  the  affections  of  one  so  long  remembered. 

They  finally  met.     Mrs.  Linden  approached  Edward  Living- 


Isoea's    Child.  495 


Biou  with  ber  usual  dignity  and  elegance,  tliougli  bearing  little 
resemblance  to  her  former  self.  The  recognition  was  slowly 
made — but  soon  tones  and  familiar  looks,  revived  the  past — 
The  beautiful  eyes  of  the  lady  met  the  searcliiiig  gaze  that  a 
pair  of  gold  spectacles  could  not  hide,  and  as  the  same  glance 
fell  upon  a  ring  familiar,  as  was  once  the  hand  that  wore  it, 
with  the  impulse  of  awakened  feeling,  their  hearts  were  united. 
Rosa  !  Edward  !  were  the  mutual  ejaculations. 

The  pale  face  of  the  lady  wore  a  glow  of  new  life.  The 
Colonel  forgot  his  gouty  foot,  and  after  au  evening  of  conver- 
sation, returned  to  the  Hudson  that  night,  for  the  hrst  time,  in 
utter  forgetfulness  of  his  goldheaded  cane. 

During  Wilton's  visit  to  the  Park,  he  had  wandered  over 
all  the  old  familiar  places,  and  made  glad  the  heart  of  old 
Goody  Burke  by  his  coming,  and  by  the  promise  of  a  visit 
from  his  mother,  which  at  last  overwhelmed  her  with  joy. 
She  laughed,  cried,  and  could  scarcely  believe  the  existence  of 
her  senses,  when  with  her  raised  glasses  she  gazed  once  mor 
upon  the  face  of  her  old  mistress — and  who  can  say  that  in  th^ 
hearts  of  those  who  had  been  separated  for  long  years,  emotions 
of  joy  had  not  been  kindled  of  equal  fervor  and  sincerity, 
as  in  those  that  gladdened  the  breasts  of  the  young  and  joyous. 


CHAPTER    XXXIY. 

To  love,  to  bless,  their  blended  souls  were  given, 
And  each,  too  happy,  asked  no  brighter  heaven. 

Dr.  Dwight. 

I)TJrUS  WILTON,  arrived  home,  with  a  budget  of  letters, 
L  which  proved  entertainment  for  a  twilight  hour.  The  son 
first  read  one  from  his  uncle  Peter,  which  gave  an  amusing 
description  of  his  marriage  to  Miss  Sally  Sapp — an  event  for 
which  he  made  many  apologies  at  "  his  time  of  life."  Another 
from  Cora  was  seized  with  avidity,  while  the  eyes  of  the  lady 
rested  upon  one,  that  caused  her  sudden  and  deep  emotion. 

It  was  from  Canton,  but  not  alas  !    from  her  long-absent 
brother,  for  whose  coming  she  had  so  fondly  looked.     The 


496  Isoka's    Child. 

letter,  which  paled  her  features,  announced  to  her  his  death — 
by  which  event,  his  nephew  came  into  possession  of  the  sole 
estate  of  his  wealthy  relative,  saving  a  rich  legacy  which  he 
bequeathed  to  his  sister.  Thus  the  residence,  which  Wilton 
had  so  beautifully  adorned,  became  his  own  ;  and  was  already 
fitted  for  the  reception  of  its  ow^ner.  Wilton  having  never 
known  his  uncle,  was  little  affected  by  his  death  ;  but  when  he 
observed  his  mother's  grief,  he  felt,  that  so  much  wealth  had 
not  befallen  them  without  its  alloy.  He  had  no  associations, 
like  her,  to  recall,  of  a  brother's  love  in  childhood — no  disap- 
pointment of  a  reunion  with  the  only  surviving  member  of  a 
large  family,  all  of  whom,  had  now,  beside  herself,  descended 
to  the  tomb.  She,  that  was  once  an  idolized  daughter  and 
sister,  felt  deeply  the  bereavement.  She  was  at  last  alone  of 
all  her  generation  ;  and  the  raven  as  he  fluttered  his  dark  wing 
over  her  head,  on  her  visit  to  her  old  ancestral  home,  had 
seemed  to  forbode  the  decease  of  him  she  mourned.  She  had 
^^ow,  no  wish  to  return  to  it.  Death  had  too  often  found  its 
"victims  there.  She  was  happiest  in  her  quiet  home,  and  they 
who  would  occupy  it,  could  not  feel,  like  herself,  that  its  charm 
had  flown.  Rosa  Neville  still  lived  in  the  sad  Mrs.  Linden  ; 
and  affections  once  held,  were  with  her,  strong  as  the  chords 
that  united  her  to  earth.  The  ideal,  that  she  carried  year 
after  year  in  her  heart,  was  at  last  torn  from  it  ;  but  while  she 
mourned  the  faults  of  a  character,  which  so  much  tarnished  the 
brightness  of  the  original,  she  still  loved  Edward  Livingston. 
Yet  she  declined  his  proposal  of  marriage — to  become  the 
mistress  of  the  superb  home — once  to  her  but  a  prison  of  sor- 
row. With  her  old  lover  she  recalled  the  past,  and  with 
eloquent  feeling  told  him  of  all  the  wrong  that  had  been 
pracdsed  upon  them  both,  which  had  urged  her  to  marry  one, 
she  learned  to  despise — and  while  she  confessed  her  sin  of  con- 
cealment, she  did  not  palliate  the  wrong  she  had  done  him 
through  a  long  life.  But  Edward  Livingston,  needed  not  her 
tears,  or  ref)eutance — he  coveted  the  idol  of  his  youth,  in  his 
spacious  home.  Yet  Rosa  Linden  knew  that  their  lives  had 
been  different — that  circumstances  had  made  diverse  their 
tastes,  and  she  preferred  still  to  cherish  the  ideal  of  her  imagi- 
nation, who  to  her  was  faultless,  than  to  feel,  year  after  year, 
the  visible  change  wrought  in  one,  she  had  deemed  so  perfect. 
She  felt  that  while  she  had  lost  her  worldly  pride,  Colonel 
Livingston  had  fostered  the  germ,  now  deeply  rooted.     Had 


Isoka's    Child.  497 

he,  when  in  the  depths  of  humility  and  poverty,  been  enabled 
to  have  oifered  her  his  hand,  she  could  not  have  rejected  him 
■ — she  had  become  his  wife  ;  nor  could  she  see  any  hope  of 
softening  then  into  humility  the  arrogance  of  his  nature — but 
in  the  hands  of  God,  she  could  only  leave  him,  trusting  that 
the  prayers  of  those  who  loved  him,  would  yet  be  answered — 
and  that  he  might  die,  if  he  had  not  lived,  an  humble 
Christian, 

Colonel  Livingston  felt  deeply  the  refusal  of  Mrs.  Linden, 
to  unite  her  destiny  at  last  with  his — but  it  was  as  much  a 
blow  to  his  pride,  as  to  the  long  cherished  affection  which  he 
fancied  still  lived.  He  deemed  her  a  magnificent  representa- 
tive of  his  once-loved  Rosa — if  without  the  girlish  grace  of 
the  young  wife  from  whom  he  had  last  parted.  Why,  he 
asked  himself,  had  she  rejected  him,  with  all  the  proof  he  had 
had  of  her  long-abiding  love  ?  Had  he  been  poor  and  humble 
in  station,  he  might  have  doubted  her  constancy — but  now, 
that  she  preferred  obscurity,  and  a  solitary  life,  to  luxurious-||k, 
ness  and  his  society,  was  to  him  a  humiliating  mystery.  He  • 
received  in  her  refusal,  a  great  and  annihilating  blow  ;  what, 
he  asked  himself,  was  the  value  of  all  his  wealth  and  influence, 
if  neither  could  buy  him  one  affectionate  heart  ? 

He  became  gradually  a  changed  being.  He  looked  upon 
himself  in  his  true  light,  without  the  false  glare  of  pomp  and 
show  ;  he  contrasted  the  worship  of  the  swarm  of  heartless 
flatterers,  who  feasted  on  his  wealth,  with  the  genuine  sincere 
affection  that  abides  through  all  ills,  and  sighed  that  he  so 
little  merited  it. 

Could  his  possessions  combine  to  soothe  an  old  age  of  loneli- 
ness ? — it  was  true  that  his  blessed  child  would  cling  to  him, 
though  far  away  ;  yet  she  preferred  an  humble  home,  to  his 
once  coveted,  and  now  possessed  inheritance.  He  saw  that 
she  had  not  set  her  heart  on  the  riches  of  this  world,  but  that 
love  was  the  main  principle  of  her  life,  and  God  within  the 
temple. 

The  Rosa,  too,  of  whom  he  had  dreamed,  on  whose  separation 
from  her  husband  he  had  gloated,  whom  he  had  sought  in  secret, 
and  vowed  some  day  to  possess,  she  had  now  rejected  him. 
And  why?  Because  he  was  a  worldly-proud  man.  For  had 
she  not  told  him,  bright,  glorious  woman  that  she  was,  that 
she  was  too  humble,  too  lowly  for  him  ?  The  lofty,  arrogant 
Edward  Livingston  bowed  under  the  affliction,  and  left  the 


498  IsoEA^'s    Child. 

only  woman  he  had  ever  worshiped  with  humiliation  and  shame. 
He  uttered  no  word  of  reproach,  for  he  felt  that  with  all  the  bit- 
ter repentance  she  suffered  in  her  sense  of  wrong  towards  him, 
she  was,  in  her  contrite  spirit,  far  hoUer  than  himself. 

Neither  would  Rosa  Linden  accept  a  home  with  her  son  ; 
she  preferred  to  die  as  she  had  lived,  in  the  exercise  of  a  life  of 
benevolence.  The  one  great  sin  of  her  life  cost  her  hours  of 
daily  repentance  ;  and  if  penitential  tears,  and  heartfelt  sorrow 
for  her  fault,  could  atone  for  the  wrong,  she  might  hope  for 
forgiveness.  Her  wealth  enabled  her  to  do  good  ;  and  by  the 
exercise  of  self-denial,  she  saved  liberal  sums  for  the  indigent, 
and  for  those  who  had  been  in  better  circumstances,  whose 
pride  and  delicacy  prevented  an  exposure  of  their  poverty.  To 
such  she  loved  most  to  extend  her  charity,  for  she  knew  that 
they  were  the  really  needy. 

The  children  of  Flora  Clarendon  were  ever  through  life  like 
her  own  ;  and  in  after  years,  the  little  Rosa,  who  bore  her 
name,  and  her  mother's  own  radiant  eyes  and  locks,  was  the 
blessing  of  her  declining  years. 

With  softened  feelings,  and  regret  for  the  treatment  of  the 
noble-hearted  Wilton,  Colonel  Livingston  finally  reconciled 
himself  fully  and  cordially  to  his  marriage  Avith  Cora,  and  now 
looked  forward  to  the  period  with  grateful  joy,  for  he  saw  that 
by  the  union  he  made  happy  the  only  being  who  had  loved  him, 
through  good  and  through  evil. 

The  day  had  been  fixed  upon  for  their  nuptials,  and  the 
Colonel  had  set  his  heart  upon  honoring  Wilton  with  a  wed- 
ding of  great  splendor,  and  commenced  preparations  for  the 
event.  He  was,  however,  disappointed  when  Cora  informed 
him  she  wished  to  be  married  in  church,  on  some  morning 
appointed,  and  to  leave  quietly  without  parade  or  show. 

The  Colonel  was  desirous  of  a  magnificent /e^<?,  but  Cora  as 
firmly  declined,  urging  for  her  argument  Wilton's  aversion  to 
pomp  and  display.  The  Colonel  was  therefore  compelled  to 
yield  the  point,  while  he  gave  orders  to  have  the  carriages  in 
readiness  on  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day,  to  convey  his 
family  to  Xew  York. 

Few  were  apprised  of  the  expected  ceremony  ;  and  when  the 
time  came,  so  simply  Cora  arrayed  herself,  that  even  Judy  for- 
got that  she  was  to  go  forth  to  her  bridal  ;  and  with  the 
bouquet  of  orange  buds  and  white  roses  she  bi'ought  to  her, 
ehc  slipped  in  her  own  favorite  blossoms  of  the  "golden  immor- 


Child.  499 

tal."    But  with  a  smile,  Cora  told  her  tliat  she  must  discard  the 
last,  as  they  v^ere  not  pretty  for  a  bride. 

"Oh!"  but  said  Judy,  while  her  black  eyes  grew  watery, 
"  they  are  like  you,  always  pretty." 

"  The  blossom  was  not  badly  chosen,  Judy,"  said  the  lover, 
as  he  re-arraug-ed  the  flowers,  "  for  it  is  a  sweet  emblem  of  one 
fitted  for  Heaven." 

"  Oh  !  hush,"  whispered  Cora.  "  I  never  felt  so  humble  as 
now,  so  untit  for  the  blessings  of  my  lot.     Where  is  papa  ?" 

"  In  the  parlor  ;  he  is  walking  the  room." 

"  ]\Iy  dear  father  !     He  will  be  lonely."     Cora  eyes  filled. 

"  He  must  come  to  us.  Yoii  will  not  be  much  separated. 
Be  composed,  for  my  sake,  on  this  occasion." 

**  I  will.     The  servants  are  to  be  present.     Go  Judy." 

Cora  returned  to  her  toilet-table,  and  took  from  it  a  ring 
full  of  bright  stones,  which  she  placed  upon  Judy's  finger.  The 
black  eyes  now  ran  over,  and  the  gift  was  disregarded  in  the 
emotion  of  her  honest,  lov-ng  heart.  ^ 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  won't  keep  your  promise,"  said  Wil- 
ton, as  he  drew  nearer  his  intended  bride. 

'*  My  poor  father,  I  would  not  grieve  him.  I  will  try  to  be 
composed." 

On  the  arm  of  her  betrothed,  Cora  came  to  meet  her  father. 
He  met  her  with  outstretched  arms,  and  silently  held  her  to 
his  breast,  while  he  whispered, 

"  God  for  ever  bless  you." 

"  You  will  follow  us,"  murmured  the  daughter,  struggling 
to  be  cahu. 

"  Yes,  yes,  darling  ;  take  her  Wilton,  you  have  earned  her 
nobly  ;  guard  her  as  your  life — make  her  happy,  and  take,  too, 
toy  blessing." 

"  I  have  left  my  Bible  for  you,  papa;  it  will  speak  to  you  of  me." 

"  Bless  you,  bless  you,  child." 

It  w^as  a  day  befitting  tlie  occasion,  the  setting  forth  of  the 
two  happy  beings  on  the  journey  of  life,  when  Rufus  Wilton  and 
Cora  Livingston  approached  the  altar  to  be  united.  No  robe 
of  costly  splendor  floated  around  her  person,  no  veil  of  gossa- 
mer lace  enveloped  her  form  ;  but  the  few  wdio  looked  upon 
her,  as  she  went  up  the  sacred  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  noble 
lover,  felt  that  they  witnessed  the  happiness  of  two  loving, 
trustful  hearts.  Ko  marble  paleness  during  the  ceremony 
overspread  the  delicate  features  of  the  bride,  or  made  mor^^ 


500  Isoka's    Child. 

snowy  the  open  brow,  where  naught  lay  but  the  parted  waves 
of  her  gohleu  hair  ;  but  the  pure  light  that  ilhimined  her  face, 
was  such  as  Ues  on  the  cheeii  of  infancy  ;  and  when  she  placed 
her  hand  in  that  of  the  calai,  dignified  groom,  he  looked  down 
upon  her  as  one  receiving  a  holy  trust.  While  at  the  altar, 
other  responses  were  heard  to  mingle  with  the  low  tones  that 
uttered  the  solemn  "  amen"  arising  to  Heaven  on  that  joyful 
occasion.  Mr.  Dethwaite  and  his  sister  too,  bowed  reveren- 
tially, and  near  them  the  bent  form  of  old  Goody  Burke  knelt 
in  prayer,  but  nearer  still,  a  graceful  being  enveloped  in  rich 
folds  of  deepest  black,  with  a  long  veil  of  crape  thrown  aside 
from  her  pale  features,  called  down  the  blessing  of  Heaven 
upon  the  lovely  bride  and  her  happy  husband,  and  though  sadly 
her  dress  contrasted  with  that  of  those  around  her,  one  who 
looked  upon  her,  as  she  met  the  fond  eyes  of  a  husband,  who 
watched  her  emotion,  could  not  but  feel  that  though  sorrowing, 
she  too  was  blest. 

The  Colonel  had  lost  his  air  of  pride,  his  voice  grew  husky, 
and  his  eyes  tearful,  as  he  gave  his  daughter  away,  and  though 
few  could  resist  a  smile,  when  Judy  followed  with  long  strides, 
preceding  Sophy  up  the  aisle,  all  sympathized  with  the  alfec- 
tionate  child,  as  a  sob  burst  from  her  breast,  while  she  received 
the  kind  farewell  of  Cora,  as  she  stepped  into  her  carriage  for 
her  wedding  journey,  with  the  promise  of  a  future  home  with 
her  young  mistress. 

From  the  church  door  they  drove  away,  followed  by  the 
warm  friends  that  had  assembled,  none  offering  Cora  and 
Wilton  more  sincere  congratulations  than  the  old  suitor  of  the 
the  bride,  Louis  Clarendon.  Mrs.  Linden  was  not  present  ; 
she  preferred  to  welcome  her  children  to  the  little  Virginia 
cottage. 

A  fortnight  of  leisure  travelling  brought  the  bride  and 
groom  to  the  hilly  region  of  Virginia,  near  by  their  rural 
home.  Cora  was  enchanted  with  the  picturesque  country 
through  which  they  travelled  ;  mountain,  stream,  and  valley 
seemed  prolific  with  beauty  ;  and  the  coloring  jif  forest,  hill, 
and  sky,  worthy  of  the  poet's  pen  and  painter's  pencil.  In  all 
beautiful  spots  they  had  rested,  wandered,  and  idled  away  hours 
of  uninterrupted  happiness,  seeing  new  beauties  to  delight  the 
eye  in  all  God's  glorious  things.  At  times  they  would  look 
down  into  the  bosom  of  a  secluded  valley,  where  cottages 
nestled  in  Arcadian  loveliness,  begirt  with  hills,  and  shaded 


Isora's    Child.  501 

with  towering  trees,  whose  lofty  trunks  were  garlanded  with 
vines  and  flowers  ;  then  the  eye  of  Cora  would  rest  delighted 
upon  a  silver  stream,  glancing  in  the  sunshine,  then  winding 
onwards  to  sleep  in  some  grassy  vale,  in  peaceful  beauty.  But 
the  swelling,  bolder  features  of  the  landscape  Cora  most  admired. 
To  the  sublime  and  magnificent  she  was  ever  most  attracted. 

The  peaks  of  mountains  cradling  on  their  summits  clouds 
of  crimson  and  gold,  then  melting  away  into  the  silver  haze 
that  often  seems  there  to  for  ever  rest,  were  ever  scenes  to 
awaken  the  romance  of  her  nature,  and  send  her  spirit  soaring 
beyond  hill  and  cloud.  Occasionally  she  saw  a  deer  bounding 
from  the  woods,  as  they  sought  wider  paths,  and  sometimes  an 
eagle  soaring  in  the  sky.  The  voice  of  the  waterfall,  mingled 
with  the  murmuring  of  forest  leaves,  seemed  music  in  rich 
unison  with  the  harmony  of  their  hearts.      Together  they  had 

"  Climbed  the  mountain's  everlasting  wall, 
Lingered  where  the  thunder  waters  fall, 

Wandered  by  old  ocean's  side,  ^ 

And  held  communion  with  its  silver  tide." 

But  at  last  they  approached  the  little  cottage-home  of  their 
sweet,  but  ever  sad  mother.  Her  welcome  was  affectionate, 
and  so  neat,  tasteful,  and  flowery  seemed  the  sequestered  little 
cot,  that  Cora  felt  no  craving  for  greater  splendor.  The 
sweetest  breath  of  summer  came  through  her  neatly  matted 
apartment,  while  around  her  was  arranged  all  that  one  could 
ask  for  comfort.  In  the  gaiety  of  her  heart  Cora  sought  the 
wildest  spots,  and  shadiest  nooks — rambles  never  happier  on 
the  shores  of  the  Hudson  ;  but  the  following  day,  her  husband 
proposed  to  seek  their  own  home,  to  which  Cora  roved  in  ima- 
gination, with  curiosity  and  interest.  Wilton  had  reserved  the 
news  of  his  recent  inheritance,  and  with  his  fervent  desire  to 
leave  her  own  property  untouched,  had  determined  to  content 
herself  with  the  home  he  provided  for  her,  however  humble  it 
might  be. 

The  drive  was  not  long,  before  they  reached  the  region  in 
which  Neville  Hall  was  situated  ;  and  soon  travelled  by  miles 
of  partly  cultivated  grounds,  hedged  by  hawthorn  with  which 
was  mingled  running  roses. 

It  was  approaching  evening.  The  smell  of  evergreens,  and 
shrubbery  unfamiliar  to  her  eye,  together  with  the  soft  breath 
of  a  summer  afternoon,  subdued  her  senses  into  dreamv  silence 


502  Isora's    Child. 

Wilton  pleasurably  watched  the  expression  of  her  face,  as  the 
gleams  of  summer  light  fell  across  it,  through  the  quivering 
forest  leaves,  boughs  of  which,  sometimes,  brushed  them 
familiarly  as  they  passed. 

He  saw  her  gaze  extending  far  into  the  extensive  parks  of 
untrained  verdure,  save  such  undue  clearing  as  admitted  of 
smooth  slopes  of  vivid  green.  Agam  her  eye  resting  upon  the 
patches  of  flowering  laurel  and  rhododendron,  and  the  next 
moment  roving  -above  the  proud  leafy  sons  of  the  soil,  to  the 
sublime  hemlock,  which  above  them  all  stood,  like  an  "  ivy- 
mantled  tower." 

A  thunder-shower  had,  during  the  afternoon,  cleared  the  air, 
and  left  its  crystal  drops  still  sparkling.  Clouds'  of  purple, 
edged  with  gold  and  violet  hues,  lay  about  the  horizon,  on 
which  were  heaped  piles  of  silver-tinted  wreathing  mists,  and 
above  breaking  from  a  dark  rolling  cloud  became  visible,  as 
Cora  looked,  a  patch  of  heaven's  blue. 

"  It  is  clearing  away — look,  Rufus,  see  the  sky  !  how  beau- 
tiful !''  exclaimed  the  young  bride.  But  ere  his  attention  was 
attracted,  her  eyes  had  sought  another  scene.  She  was  now 
looking  from  the  open  window  of  the  carriage  over  an  extended 
woodland,  full  of  dingles,  bright  ^cascades,  and  shining  rivulets, 
all  embowered  by  overhanging  trees  of  stately  growth.  Here 
Cora  clasped  the  arm  of  her  husband,  while,  with  hushed 
breath  she  murmured  :   "  This  is  Elysium  !" 

A  smile  passed  over  the  face  upon  which  she  looked,  and 
fhey  drove  slowly  onward  through  the  green  archway,  her  eye 
bewildered,  and  her  senses  charmed.  Soon  they  came  upon 
what  seemed  a  carria2:e  pathway,  which  brought  them  nearer 
the  grounds  of  the  Hall.  Here  was  more  cultivation — lawns 
of  richest  velvet  lay  visible,  in  smooth,  well-trimmed  beauty, 
broken  only  by  flowering  trees  and  shrubs,  among  which 
mingled  roses  of  every  variety  which  the  soil  could  yield. 
Trees  of  beech,  live  oak  and  ash,  together  with  clumps  of 
towering  elms,  stood  in  grand  array,  at  intervals  on  the 
grassy  lawn,  their  long  shadows  lying  against  the  fading 
sunlight,  while  scattered  around,  on  slope  and  terrace,  was  a 
species  of  the  magnolia,  that  prince  of  the  flowery  kingdom, 
rearing  to  heaven  its  crystal  cups  and  blossoms. 

They  had  now  nearly  reached  the  gates  of  the  "  Hall." 
They  were  soon  opened  by  a  colored  servant,  who  bowed  low 
to  greet  his  young  master,  when  his  eager  rolling  eyes  j>eered 


Isoka's    Child.  503 

into  the  carnage  for  a  sight  of  his  young  mistress.  The 
coacliman  drove  slowly  through.  Cora's  heart  beat  fast. 
"  Wliy  was  she  brought  here,"  she  asked  in  her  inquiring  gaze. 

"We  will  go  on  leisurely,"  said  Wilton,  enjoying  the 
bewilderment  of  his  wife.  They  alighted  on  the  wide  gravelled 
path,  which  was  bordered  with  rich  green  turf,  here  and  there 
studded  with  superb  flowers.  The  sweet  blossoms  of  the  cape 
jessamine  nestled  among  leaves  of  glo>:siest  green,  mingled 
with  those  of  the  oleander  and  wax-plant,  whi^e  here  and 
there  a  beautiful  japonica  showed  its  thick  white  petals 
The  fresh  rain-drops  were  now  glittermg  on  the  flowers. 

After  stopping  to  admire  each  lovely  plant,  Cora  was 
attracted  to  the  scarlet  pomegranate  blossoms,  near  which,  a 
climbing  rose  extended  its  tendrils  to  a  tall  tree,  while  around 
it  already  wreathed  the  beautiful  Le  Marque,  with  its  myriads 
of  blossoms.  The  path  was  circuitous,  and  they  were  long 
reaching  the  house,  so  reluctant  and  slow  was  their  progress 
through  the  enchanting  lawn.  Exceeding  sweet  was  the  per- 
fume that  went  up  from  the  flowers,  together  with  that  of  the 
fragrant  balsam  and  fir,  that  hedged  them  in. 

Sometimes  they  were  separated,  while  Cora,  in  her  enthu- 
siasm lingered,  her  husband  meanwhile  training  a  fallen  vine 
or  drooping  rose-bush  that  the  shower  had  broken  dov/n.  He 
was  not  long  absent,  but  soon  at  her  side,  with  perhaps  an 
exquisite  bud  or  leaf  for  her. 

So  gracefully  and  harmoniously  shrubs  and  climbing  vines 
mingled  with  the  native  tenants  of  the  soil,  who  seemed 
proudly  to  defy  foreign  invasion,  that  nature  seemed  the  sole 
and  graceful  cultivator. 

The  sun's  last  beams  were  now  coming  aslant  over  the  lawn, 
gilding  with  sunlight  each  lovely  object. 

The  birds  had  commenced  their  evening  carol— some  were 
twittering  in  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees,  others  high  on 
the  boughs  in  their  old  homes,  their  throats  swelling  with  w.ld 
melody. 

Cora  stopped  to  listen,  then  looking  into  her  husband's  f^ce, 
said, 

"  Why  have  you  brought  me  here  ?" 

"To  share  my  home,  Cora." 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  beautiful — too  grand  !" 

"  But  not  if  it  came  as  a  gift — an  inheritance.  Yes,  Cora, 
by  my  uncle's  death,  Neville  Hall  is  mine — and  yours." 


604  Isoka's    Child. 

"  I  wish  dear  papa  could  see  it.  I  could  have  been  happy 
in  a  cottage." 

"  We  will  make  him  happy  here,  some  day.  Perhaps  he 
will  pass  next  winter  with  us  ;  but  we  will  not  stop,  for  we 
are  near  the  house." 

Preparations  had  been  made  for  their  reception.  To  many 
airy,  grand  apartments,  the  husband  led  his  bride — through  many 
old-fashioned  rooms,  where  hung  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors, 
where  comfort,  ease,  and  luxury  was  combined  in  their  simple 
arrangements  ;  but  none  to  Cora  was  so  enchanting,  as  a 
little  bower  of  a  place  where  roses  climbed  over  the  diamond 
windows,  where  she  found  the  choicest  books,  a  piano,  and 
favorite  harp. 

This  was  the  birth-place  of  her  husband's  mother,  and  with 
pleasure  she  looked  out  upon  the  old  tree,  under  which  she  had 
played  in  her  childhood. 

Wilton  opened  a  door  leading  through  an  arbor  of  grapes, 
which  being  passed,  carried  them  from  terrace  to  terrace,  down 
to  a  dell  in  the  woods,  where  a  natural  cascade  fell  over  rock 
and  hillock,  into  a  trout  stream  below. 

Here  they  were  belted  in  by  firs  and  evergreens,  in  a  basin 
surrounded  by  hills,  brilliant  with  laurel  and  verdure,  where 
a  rose  arbor  had  been  recently  erected.  It  was  a  delicious 
place  to  rest,  and  an  hour  passed  before  they  returned  within 
to  the  sweet  home,  now  her  own,  where  with  subdued,  chas- 
tened joy,  she  breathed  a  silent  prayer  that  she  might  view 
it  as  but  lent  her  for  a  season,  for  which  and  all  other 
ble-s.sings,  she  should  lift  her  heart  in  thanksgivino;  to  God. 


THE    EWI). 


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